


Saccharine Sweet

by Rainne



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Banned Together Bingo 2020, Car Accidents, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Major Character Injury, Modern Era, Online Dating, Pining, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Sex Work, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-24
Updated: 2020-07-06
Packaged: 2021-03-03 18:40:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 32,913
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24900214
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rainne/pseuds/Rainne
Summary: Steve is a sugar baby looking for a sugar daddy. Bucky is a sugar daddy looking for a baby. It would seem that their needs mesh. What about everything else?
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers, Sharon Carter/Sam Wilson (background)
Comments: 222
Kudos: 266
Collections: Banned Together Bingo 2020





	1. Chapter 1

_Hi. I saw your picture and you’re a very attractive man. I’d like to invite you to come spend some time with me. Maybe dinner Sunday night? If we like each other well enough, perhaps we can come to an arrangement of some kind._

Steve reads the email and then checks the sender’s profile. No face shots; not surprising. Most sugar daddies don’t post their photos; they want to remain “discreet” so that their wives don’t catch them.

Steve mentally shrugs. Dinner is dinner, and it won’t hurt. Even if the guy is married – a situation Steve prefers to avoid – one meal won’t hurt, and Steve can find out before he gets involved.

He hits the reply button. _Sounds great,_ he writes. _When and where?_

Half an hour later, he gets a reply naming a restaurant and a time, to which he sends an affirmative agreement. Then he calls his friend Sharon.

“Got a live one,” he says when she answers.

“Oh, good,” Sharon says. “Hopefully not like the last one.”

“The last one will never happen again,” Steve replies, shuddering at just the thought of his last sugar daddy, Alexander Pierce, who had started off a little creepy and only gotten worse until Steve finally cut things off at the six-week mark. “I’ll be paying more attention to red flags in the future.”

“Good,” Sharon says decisively. “So tell me about this one.”

“Nothing to tell yet,” Steve says. “We’re having dinner Sunday night to see if we get along.”

“Well, you have to tell me everything when you get back.”

“Don’t I always?” Steve asks. “That reminds me, we’re going to be at Leonardo’s in SoHo at seven-thirty. So, you know.”

“You’ll put your location on, right?” Sharon asks.

“Always,” Steve replies. Sharon’s the only one who has access to his phone’s locator app, but she always has access to it when he’s on a date, just in case he should end up not returning. Being a sugar baby is less dangerous than some other forms of sex work, but it’s still sex work, and there’s still an element of risk.

See above, re: Alexander Pierce.

Still, being a sugar baby can be a lucrative job, and Steve intends to make the most of it while he’s still young enough to be attractive to the kinds of men who are interested in a twink like him. He’s twenty-five, so he’s getting a little long in the tooth for it, but he’ll milk this cash cow as long as he can.

“Okay, I’m gonna go work on this painting,” Steve says, eyeballing his latest piece, which sits unfinished on the easel by the big window. “I’ll call after my date and let you know how it went.”

“Do that,” Sharon says, and they disconnect.

Steve goes back to work on his painting.

~*~

When Sunday rolls around, Steve gets another message from the guy on the sugar baby app, letting him know that their reservation for dinner is under the name Sullivan, and Steve replies with a simple _got it, see you at 7:30._ When it’s time, he dresses carefully in a pair of black skinny jeans, a white button-up and a floral vest. He considers a tie and then decides against it; Leonardo’s isn’t that fancy. He waffles for a few minutes between plain shoes and combat boots, and eventually decides to go with the boots; they make a nice contrast to the vest.

Once he’s ready, he turns on his phone’s location and heads out to catch the train from Brooklyn into SoHo.

Leonardo’s is actually really close to the train station, so Steve opts to walk rather than trying to hail a cab. he gets to the restaurant at exactly 7:30 and heads up to the maître d’, giving the name Sullivan for the reservation. He’s led way to the back of the restaurant, to a booth tucked in a far corner, well away from windows. His date isn’t there yet, so he has time to settle himself and glance over the menu before someone else slides into the booth across from him.

Steve looks up. “Hi,” he says, and then he vapor locks.

“Hi,” says Bucky Barnes. “You must be Steve.”

“I, uh. Yeah,” Steve says, attempting to gather his wits. “Steve Rogers. And you’re Bucky Barnes.” He offers his hand across the table to shake. “Pleasure to meet you.”

Bucky shakes his hand, then picks up the menu. “The lasagna here is to die for.”

“I was actually thinking about chicken parmigiana,” Steve replies.

“Also an excellent choice,” Bucky agrees. “Honestly, everything here is good. I come here all the time.”

They chat idly about the menu and their options before the waiter comes to the table to take their orders; Bucky orders a bottle of wine for them to share and gets the lasagna; Steve agonizes for a second but ends up settling on the chicken parmigiana, as he’d planned. The waiter leaves them alone, and Steve eyeballs Bucky across the table. “So, do you mind me asking why?”

Bucky, to his credit, doesn’t ask _why, what?_ Instead, he says, “You can ask anything you want, but that’s a question I choose not to answer. My reasons are my own.”

“Fair enough,” Steve agrees. “I don’t usually go with men who have partners, though. Aren’t you dating Natasha Romanoff?”

There’s a pause in conversation while the waiter brings the wine, and then Bucky responds. “No,” he says firmly. “Nat and I are just good friends. She’s dating somebody else, anyway. And I’m single.”

“Okay,” Steve says, nodding. “Are you planning on coming out, then?” he asks.

“Yes,” Bucky replies. “Is that going to be a problem for you?”

“Not in the least,” Steve replies. “I’m out to everyone in my life. But you should be aware that a couple of my friends know what I do for a living – that I date men professionally, I mean. So when they see us together, they’ll know.”

“Can you ask them to keep it under wraps?”

Steve nods. “The ones who know, I’d trust them with my life,” he says. “If I ask them to keep their traps shut, they will.”

Bucky nods. “All right, then,” he says after a moment’s thought. “I’ll take your word for it.”

“So what are your expectations?” Steve asks.

“Pretty simple,” Bucky replies. “I’m looking for someone to occasionally hang out with and also to accompany me to events. The Met Gala is coming up and I need a plus-one, so that’ll be the first major thing.”

Steve nearly swallows his tongue. “The Met Gala?”

Bucky nods. “I’ve been doing some modeling for Valentino and they bought a couple of tables; they want me and a date to wear them on the red carpet.”

“The Met Gala in Valentino,” Steve says, then shakes his head with a small smile. “What is my life?”

Bucky laughs. “If we’re compatible,” he says, “your life’s about to get kind of interesting.”

“Are you interested in sex being part of the arrangement?” Steve asks bluntly.

“I…” Bucky trails off as the food comes. When the waiter’s gone again, he says, “Would it be a problem?”

“No,” Steve says frankly. “It wouldn’t.” He digs into his food.

Bucky tilts his head just a little. “Steve,” he says seriously, “Am I on your List?”

Steve laughs at that. “No,” he says. “I don’t have a List. But if I did, you might be on it. I mean, you _are_ the hottest thing on the silver screen for the last, what, three years running?”

“Four,” Bucky admits. “It’s been four years since _Normandy._ ”

“Right, four years.” Steve nods, then waves a fork at Bucky’s plate. “You should eat before it gets cold.”

Bucky looks down at his plate like he’d forgotten it was there, then picks up his own fork. “Yes, I should,” he says.

For a few minutes they’re silent, focusing on the food, before Steve says, “So what kind of compensation are you offering?”

“I’ll pay your rent and bills in exchange for you being on call to hang out whenever outside of your regular work hours up to, like, midnight or so. I’m not going to call you and make you come over at like 2 a.m. when you have to work; I’m selfish but not unreasonable.”

Steve nods. “That sounds… very generous.”

“There’ll also be other benefits,” Bucky adds. “I like my friends to be well taken care of, so I’ll probably tend to spoil you with little gifts and things. I’ll expect you to just accept them – you strike me as the type who might try to argue that something is ‘too much’ and I won’t want to hear it. I have more money than I really know what to do with; how I choose to spend it is my business.”

“Fair,” Steve replies, wondering how he got pegged so quickly. Bucky must be one hell of a judge of character.

“I do require exclusivity,” Bucky says. “Is that going to be a problem?”

“No, I think it’s fair,” Steve replies. “That’s a lot of money. I don’t have rent – I inherited my condo – but I do have taxes and regular bills and things. That adds up.”

“The difference between rent and taxes in cash, then,” Bucky replies. “I’ll put you on my payroll as support staff.”

“That’s… very generous.”

“Don’t get excited; it doesn’t come with health benefits.” Bucky pauses. “Not yet, anyway.”

Steve laughs. “Not to worry,” he says. “I’m on the marketplace.”

“Thanks, Obama,” Bucky replies, grinning.

“Exactly,” Steve agrees.

Bucky pauses for a moment to fork up some more lasagna and then says, “So, tell me about yourself.”

“Oh, well,” Steve says, considering what to say. “Um. I’m twenty-five, I’m an artist, I like movies with explosions and all kinds of music, even country sometimes. I’m into social justice and I’ve been arrested at protests four times, though I’ve never been charged with anything.”

Bucky tilts his head a bit. “What kinds of things do you protest?”

“The first time I got arrested was at an Occupy protest when I was seventeen,” Steve replies, grinning. “Since then, LGBTQ+ issues, Black Lives Matter, and, you know, whatever else crosses my radar that I can get to.”

“You’re very busy,” Bucky says, grinning back.

“I keep occupied,” Steve replies. “Gotta do something with all my free time, and playing _The Sims_ only fills up so many hours.”

“I love _The Sims,_ ” Bucky says, laughing. “I have it on my desktop right now. I play it sometimes at night when I can’t sleep.”

“Which version?” Steve wants to know.

“Three,” Bucky says. “Though sometimes I still play Two just for nostalgia reasons, and because I still haven’t managed to complete a legacy challenge.”

“Oh god, ten generations,” Steve groans. “I keep trying and trying and I just…”

“Yeah, same,” Bucky agrees, laughing.

“So what about you?” Steve asks. “What are you into?”

“My favorite thing right now is Geocaching,” Bucky says. “Ever done that?” When Steve shakes his head, Bucky explains. “It’s like a scavenger hunt, only it’s _everywhere,_ ” he says. “There’s an app for it, and you get coordinates for a cache and you go looking for it. When you find it, there’s always a little sign in sheet so you can mark that you were there, and then sometimes in the bigger caches there’ll be, like, a Matchbox car or a Happy Meal toy or something, some little thing. Those are fun ones. And some of them are super easy to find and then some of them are really hard to find. There’s some that are just called earthcaches, too, that basically means just being in a place and proving you were there, which you can do either with a selfie or answering trivia questions or something like that. There’s even one of those on Mount Everest.”

“Have you been?” Steve asks, astonished.

“No, I just know it’s there,” Bucky replies. “Maybe someday, I don’t know. It’s so dangerous and frankly I like being alive.”

“Me, too,” Steve says. “Mountain climbing sounds all well and good until you read about all the bodies they’ve left up on the mountain.” He grimaces. “Plus, I have asthma and a congenital heart murmur. Bad idea for me to get that high up.”

“Definitely not,” Bucky agrees. “Your conditions, are they likely to cause a problem?”

“No,” Steve replies. “I’m well controlled with medication. I keep an inhaler in my pocket at all times, and my heart’s fixed. I had surgery years ago, so it’s all good. I just wouldn’t push it by going that high up into the atmosphere.”

Bucky nods. “Makes sense.”

They spend another hour conversing over dessert and the rest of the wine, and when the check comes, Bucky picks it up. “Come on,” he says, “let’s get out of here.”

On the street, Bucky says, “Can I walk you home?”

“It’s a long walk,” Steve replies. “I live in Bed-Stuy.”

“Brooklyn boy!” Bucky exclaims.

“Born and bred,” Steve replies, grinning. “What about you?”

“I was actually born in Indiana,” Bucky confesses, following along with Steve as he starts strolling up the block toward the train station. “But we moved to Brooklyn when I was four. I didn’t move to Manhattan until after _Normandy_ , and I kind of wish I hadn’t. I’m thinking about moving back. I miss the old neighborhood. My parents still live there.”

“Manhattan just has such a different vibe,” Steve agrees.

“Exactly,” Bucky says, pointing a finger at him. “And that was great when I was twenty-six, but now that I’m thirty I actually find myself wanting to chill out more.”

Steve nods. “I get that. I’ve honestly never been a big partier.”

“I was for a long time,” Bucky says, a little distracted by a memory. “But I’ve gotten over it. I’m not that guy any more.”

Steve nods. He’s heard the rumors of alcohol and drug use that swirled around Bucky when he was filming _Captain America_ last year; everyone’s heard those rumors. Steve wonders if they were true, but he lets it go; it is in no way his business, and besides, they just met.

“Well,” Steve says when they reach the train station. “This is me.”

“So it is,” Bucky replies. “I’ll tell you what, Steve, I like you. I think you’re funny and you’re a good conversationalist and you’re definitely easy on the eyes. So what do you say to going to the Met Gala with me? Your clothes and all will be provided, of course; all you have to do is show up and look pretty.”

Steve bites his lip, then nods. “Yeah,” he says. “That sounds like a good time.” Then he pauses. “If people ask – and I’m sure they will – how did we meet?”

Bucky thinks about it for a minute, then shrugs. “The truth is always the best option; just tell them we met online and leave it at that. No details.”

Steve nods. “That sounds good. I can do that.”

“All right,” Bucky says. “Oh, here, let me have your phone. I’ll send myself a text and then we’ll have each other’s numbers.”

Steve unlocks his phone and hands it over; Bucky sends himself a text and then hands it back. “There you go,” he says. “I’ll call you tomorrow and we’ll set something up for the costumer on Tuesday, how’s that sound?”

“Sounds great,” Steve says. “I can’t wait.”

Bucky grins. “Neither can I.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the Banned Together Bingo 2020 prompt "sex work". This is my free space and my blackout square :D


	2. Chapter 2

True to his word, Bucky calls about ten o’clock on Monday and they arrange to meet at his apartment on Tuesday for Steve’s wardrobe and fitting appointment. The doorman is expecting Steve and he’s let in immediately and directed to the fifth floor. When Bucky opens the door, he’s dressed casually in jeans and a t-shirt, and standing in his sock feet. Steve kicks his shoes off at the door and follows Bucky in.

“Come on into the kitchen,” Bucky says. “I want some coffee. You want some coffee?”

“Sure,” Steve replies, following Bucky through the dining area and into a huge (by New York standards) kitchen. He blinks at the space. “Hey, this is nice.”

“Yeah, it’s great,” Bucky replies, going to work at the fancy coffee machine in the corner. “My ma loves it when she comes to visit; she loves to cook, so I got all the fancy stuff for her.”

“You don’t cook?” Steve asks, sliding onto a stool at the kitchen island.

Bucky shakes his head. “Too lazy to cook for just me,” he admits. “So I mostly go out or order in.” He cocks his head as he turns to lean against the counter while the coffee perks. “You?”

“Yeah, I cook a lot, actually,” Steve admits. “I enjoy it. But I usually make enough for tons of people, so I feed my friends and my neighbors and stuff.”

“Aw, you didn’t tell me you were a chef. I’ll have to get you to cook for me sometime.”

“I’m no chef,” Steve says, laughing. “But I’ll cook you something, sure.”

They’re interrupted by the doorbell, and Steve trails Bucky back through the living room when Bucky goes to open it. It turns out to be the costumer, looking harried. “Mr. Barnes, you are _very_ fortunate that – ”

“Yes, I know, Evan,” Bucky cuts in smoothly. “I consider myself very lucky that you have anything at all.”

“Where is he?” Evan demands.

Bucky points at Steve, who finds himself nearly quailing under the tailor’s severe look. There’s a long moment of silence as the man walks in a circle around Steve, looking him up and down, and then the man nods. “I can work with this,” he says. He turns to the elevator lobby outside the front door. “Christian! Jonathan!”

A moment later, two young men are pushing two racks of clothing into the room, and Steve finds himself stripping down to his underwear so that he can be measured, judged, found wanting, and then dressed, all in a matter of a few minutes. He tries on thirteen different outfits before Evan suddenly says “ha!” and begins snatching items out and shoving them at Steve. Moments later, he finds himself standing in front of a mirror in head-to-toe black: skinny jeans, combat boots, a mesh t-shirt, and a hip-length wool coat. The coat has a huge peacock on the back; Steve’s afraid to ask whether the stones making up the bird are real or not.

Bucky walks around Steve, studying him carefully. “It’s fantastic,” he says after a moment. “Perfection. I love the coat.”

“It’s a one of a kind,” the tailor replies.

“So’s he,” Bucky replies, grinning. “Yes, this is perfect.”

“Excellent, excellent,” the tailor says. Then he spends several minutes pinning and tucking and folding until everything is set exactly how he wants it. “You’ll need to try these on again tomorrow,” he says to Steve. He produces a business card. “Come to that address at ten o’clock.”

Steve takes the card, dropping it on the table next to his own clothes, and then turns back to the tailor, who nods once and flaps his hands at Steve. “Off, off, off.”

Obediently, Steve undresses, handing the clothes back to the tailor and pulling his own jeans and sweater back on. The tailor takes them and hangs them back on the rack, zip-tying the hangers together and marking them with a tag, and then he snaps his fingers at his young assistants. “Off we go! Much to do.” He pauses, pointing a finger at Bucky. “You are _very_ fortunate.”

“I really am!” Bucky replies, grinning. “Thank you, Evan.”

A minute later, the costumer and his minions are gone.

Bucky takes the business card and offers it to Steve. “Don’t forget this.”

“Oh, right,” Steve says, taking the card and sliding it into his pocket. “Thanks.”

“Want to watch a movie?” Bucky asks. “Or do you need to be somewhere?”

“Sure,” Steve replies. “I got nowhere to be.”

“Let’s make popcorn.”

Steve follows Bucky back into the kitchen, and Bucky pulls boxes out of a cupboard. “Popcorn, kettle corn, or double butter?”

“Kettle corn,” Steve decides, and Bucky pulls out a bag from the box. He gets a bag of double butter for himself, and then he throws the bag of kettle corn into the microwave.

“So, I forgot to ask you. What’s your work schedule like? Just so I know when not to call.”

“I actually work for myself,” Steve says. “I’m an artist. So I work whenever.”

“Oh, that’s handy,” Bucky says. “What kind of – I mean – do you paint, or…?”

“Oh, yeah,” Steve replies. “I paint, I draw. One of my more lucrative gigs is actually doing fanart.” He grins. “I’ve done several of you and your co-star from _Captain America._ ”

“I’ve signed more than a few pieces of fanart at conventions,” Bucky says, nodding. “So that pays well?”

Steve nods. “If you can get a good following, yeah. I’ve got a Patreon and stuff, so I do all right. I also occasionally sell a painting or a sketch. I’ve got work up at several coffee shops around Brooklyn. I did a gallery show last winter; that was awesome.”

“I bet,” Bucky says. “Maybe you’ll do another one soon.”

“Would it be crass if I parlayed the reflected fame I’m about to have from hanging out with you?”

“Not at all,” Bucky replies, switching out the bags and handing Steve his kettle corn. “Or if it is, I don’t care. If you can use this to get better known, use it.” He shrugs. “My dad always says never to turn down a good opportunity, and he’s never steered me wrong.” He smiles. “Will you show me your art sometime?”

Steve smirks. “You wanna see my etchings?”

“Those, too,” Bucky replies, leering just a little bit.

“Well,” Steve says, pulling up his sleeve, “you can see this one right here. I drew this.”

The angel on Steve’s arm is gorgeous, and colored in a light watercolor wash that really brings out the ethereal beauty of the drawing itself. “Wow,” Bucky breathes, looking at it up close. “Steve, that’s amazing.”

“Thanks,” Steve says, smiling as he touches it with one finger. “I got it for my Ma, after she died.”

“I wish I could draw like that,” Bucky says. “I don’t know anybody that can.”

“Sure you do,” Steve replies. “Anybody can. It’s just a matter of practice. I’ve been drawing since I could hold a crayon. Ma always encouraged it, especially when I was younger, before my heart surgery. It kept me entertained and she didn’t have to worry about me having an attack or something.”

“That’s good, that she encouraged you like that. Mine did the same for me when I discovered my love of acting at the tender age of nine in a school play.”

“Oh, god,” Steve groans. “Let me guess, you were an overenthusiastic goat.”

“I’ll have you know, I was an overenthusiastic Christmas elf,” Bucky replies, laughing.

Steve guffaws. “I love it. Tell me there’s video.”

“Fortunately not, but there are pictures. I’ll show you sometime.” Bucky’s popcorn finishes and the two of them wander out into the living room again. “Come on,” Bucky says. “I’ll show you the TV room and give you the nickel tour.”

The apartment is huge – Steve had no actual idea how big. It’s got four bedrooms, three and a half bathrooms, the living room, the dining room, the kitchen, a media room, and even a small office.

“Wow,” Steve says once they fetch up in the media room. “This place is great.”

“It’s too much for just me,” Bucky confesses. “I never even use ninety percent of it. The hell do I need four bedrooms for?”

“Three guests?” Steve offers.

“Eh.” Bucky shrugs. “I used to have people over a lot, I guess, but, you know. These days I’m more chill than I used to be.”

“There’s nothing wrong with chill,” Steve says. “Chill is good.”

“Yeah, I think I like it better.” Bucky nods, grabbing the remote. “So what do you want to watch?”

“Oh, I dunno,” Steve says. “What’s on offer?”

They end up deciding on _Spaceballs,_ which both of them have seen multiple times already, but as Bucky points out, it’s always an excellent choice. They both recite lines along with the movie, laughing together in all the right places. When it’s over, Bucky says, “How about _Blazing Saddles_?” and they watch that as well. When that’s over, though, Steve stands up and stretches. “If I’m going to be at Evan’s tomorrow at ten, I’d better get home and get some sleep.”

“Yeah, of course,” Bucky says. “Call me after and let me know how it goes.”

“Will do.” Steve salutes.

Bucky walks Steve out, and Steve makes his way back to Brooklyn. He doesn’t go home, though; instead, he goes to Sharon’s place. She and her boyfriend Sam have a tiny loft apartment that they can just afford without roommates, only a few blocks away from Steve’s own place, and so he climbs up the fire escape and taps on their window.

Sam comes to let him in, shaking his head. “Can’t you come in the front like a normal person?”

“No,” Steve replies, clambering through the window and into the room. “My news is too important for normal people things.”

“Oh, is this about the sugar daddy?” Sharon asks, coming out of the kitchen and tossing him a bottle of water. “Am I finally going to get the story?”

“Yes,” Steve says, cracking the lid and taking a deep drink. “But the important thing is that you can’t tell anyone that you know how we met. Either of you.”

“We can’t – Steve, who _is_ this guy?” Sam demands, moving to the couch to sit down beside Sharon.

“It’s Bucky Barnes.” Steve caps the bottle and flops down in the armchair.

“Bucky Barnes,” Sharon repeats. “You mean _Captain America_ Bucky Barnes?”

“The one and only,” Steve replies. “And guess what I’ve been doing today? Only getting myself measured and fitted for an outfit to wear to the fucking _Met Gala_ next Monday.”

“Bucky Barnes hired you to… to be his date to the Met Gala?” Sharon manages.

Steve nods again.

“Wait… Bucky Barnes is in the market for a sugar baby? Bucky _Barnes_?” Sam asks, incredulous.

“I know!” Steve exclaims. “It’s crazy! Totally nuts! But you _can’t tell anyone._ ”

“Can _you_?” Sharon asks. “Did you sign an NDA or anything?”

“No, no, he didn’t make me sign anything – which is odd, and makes me wonder if his legal people know what he’s up to. But he asked me not to tell anyone. I told him that you already know about what I do, Sharon, and I figured you’d already told Sam I had a new sugar daddy, but you guys seriously can’t tell anyone else.”

“Wait – Steve, are you actually going through with this?” Sam asks.

“Yeah,” Steve says. “We already made the arrangements. He’s going to pay all my bills and the taxes on the condo and he’ll give me the difference between market rent and the taxes in cash.”

“Jesus,” Sharon says.

“I know, it’s more than Pierce was willing to pay. Tightass,” Steve grumbles.

“Pierce was a piece of shit,” Sharon says. “And you’re well rid of him.”

“Let’s just hope Bucky Barnes doesn’t turn out to be a piece of shit, too,” Sam says.

“I don’t think he will,” Steve says. “I actually hung out at his place with him tonight and we watched movies. He’s really nice.” He pauses. “I think… I think he’s lonely.”

“Do you think the rumors are true?” Sharon asks. “About the drugs, I mean.”

“Possibly,” Steve admits. “He indicated that he used to do a lot of partying but said he doesn’t any more. He even said he’s thinking about moving back to Brooklyn.”

“That’s… different,” Sam says. “I’d have thought he was living it up in Manhattan.”

“I think mostly he’s rattling around in a huge apartment that he doesn’t need,” Steve says.

“Wait,” Sharon says suddenly. “Isn’t he seeing Natasha Romanoff? I thought you didn’t go with guys who had partners.”

Steve shakes his head. “He says they’re just good friends and she’s seeing someone else.”

“Oh, okay.” Sharon blows out a breath. “I thought for a minute that you’d forgotten in the excitement of it being _Bucky Barnes._ ”

Steve rolls his eyes. “I’m not the one with the huge man-crush on him.” He eyeballs Sam pointedly.

“Hey, all I’m saying is _if_ I swung that way and _if_ the opportunity presented itself…” Sam grins.

“Nerd,” Sharon laughs, leaning over to kiss Sam’s cheek.

“Okay, I’m going home,” Steve says, standing up. “I have to be at the tailor’s tomorrow at ten to get another fitting for my outfit. Wait til you see it; it’s amazing.”

“Who will you be wearing?” Sharon asks.

“Valentino,” Steve replies. “Just wait. The jacket has a peacock on the back that’s probably made out of Swarovski crystal or something; it’s _gorgeous._ ”

“I’m jealous,” Sharon says. “Do you get to keep it afterward?”

“I highly doubt it,” Steve replies. “But even if I did, where would I wear it? Can you imagine wearing it out somewhere and forgetting and leaning back and tearing it up?”

“Oh jeez, no, that’d be awful,” Sharon agrees.

“Besides, if I was gonna keep anything, it’d be the boots. They’re amazing and super comfortable.”

“We’ll see it all when you’re on TV,” Sam says. “Go home. Get some sleep.”

“Yeah, I’m going.” Steve moves toward the window.

“Go out the front door!” Sam demands, and Steve, laughing, obeys.

He heads home and, when he gets there, goes immediately to the bedroom that’s been his since he was born. He thought about moving into the master bedroom after his Ma died, but he doesn’t want to; he keeps it as a guest room instead, and he continues to sleep in the same double bed he’s had since high school.

Flopping down on the said bed, Steve kicks his shoes off and stares at the ceiling. Not for the first time, he wonders what his Ma would think if she knew what he was doing for a living. She wouldn’t like it, that’s for sure. He sighs, thinking once again about the possibility of getting a “real” job, but knowing there’s no way he could pay all his bills and live on a service industry wage in New York City.

Besides, against all odds, he kind of _likes_ what he does. He enjoys spending time with interesting men (barring Alexander Pierce, who had just been a regular dick all around), and he even enjoys getting to have sex with them. So it’s a win-win, really.

He gets up and strips for bed, crawling between the sheets naked, and thinks about Bucky Barnes. Yeah, he won’t mind having sex with Bucky Barnes when the time comes.

Steve catches sight of the clock, sighs, and reaches out to turn off the bedside lamp. He needs to sleep.


	3. Chapter 3

At noon on Monday, Steve presents himself at the door of Bucky’s apartment building and the doorman nods and opens the door for him. “Good afternoon.”

“Good afternoon,” Steve replies. “Thank you.” He goes inside and calls for the elevator, riding up to the fifth floor with no real idea of what’s going to happen next.

The door to Bucky’s apartment is open when Steve steps off the elevator, and he sticks his head in, tapping on the panel as he does so. At the noise, two men who were having a conversation near the window stop and turn to face him. “Who are you?” one of them, severe looking in a black suit, asks.

“Steve,” Steve replies. “Steve Rogers. I, um. Bucky’s… expecting me?”

The second man, in a black t-shirt and bright red leather pants, trots across the room to the left and disappears down a hallway. Steve and the suited man stare at one another for a long moment before the man in the red pants returns. “It’s all right,” he says. “He’s Bucky’s date.”

The suited man looks, if possible, even more severe. “Really?”

“Hey, what’s so wrong with that?” Steve asks, standing up as straight as possible.

“Nothing, darling, nothing,” says the man in the red pants. “You’d better come in. If you’re going to the event, you need to get dressed.”

“My clothes are supposed to be here,” Steve says.

“Of course they are,” the man says. “Come on, we’ll find them and get you set up on one of the bedrooms to change.”

Steve follows the man in the red pants, but not without a parting glare for the man in the suit.

At the end of the hall, past several closed doors, there’s another door standing wide open; this time, it’s to a sitting room. Here, the tailor has set up shop and is doing a last-minute alteration on a pair of pants that Bucky, standing on a stool, is wearing. “Hey, Steve!” Bucky exclaims. “You’re right on time.”

“As ordered,” Steve replies, giving him a sloppy salute. “Where should I…?”

“Christian, find the outfit,” the tailor says. “Jonathan, the room next door, if you please.”

Christian and Jonathan move like a well-oiled machine, and Steve is taken from the custody of the man in the red pants and led into a sumptuous bedroom, where Christian brings a garment rack and hangs Steve’s clothing items on it. “Go ahead and put everything on, including the jacket,” Christian says. “He’ll want to see it on you and make sure whether it needs any last minute adjustments.”

Steve takes a minute to really look around at the room he’d only glanced at last week during the tour Bucky gave him. The room is beautifully decorated and everything is done in shades of gray: light gray wood, dove gray walls and bedding, silvery carpet. The wide windows allow for plenty of light, and Steve wanders over to them, taking a long look out at Manhattan.

“So this is how the other half lives,” he murmurs to himself, and crosses back to the bed to start dressing.

It’s as he’s pulling the mesh shirt over his head, trying to be careful and avoid snagging or stretching it, that he notices the framed pictures on the bureau. He gets the shirt on, smoothing it down in the front, and wanders over to pick one of the pictures up and have a look at it.

He immediately recognizes Bucky from the distinctive divot in his chin, and he smiles at the sight of him as a child, dressed in a pumpkin costume and carrying a trick-or-treat bucket. Steve puts the picture down and picks up another one: Bucky as a preteen, dressed in a Boy Scout uniform and holding up a large fish. A third picture is of Bucky as a teenager, dressed in what is probably a rented tux, with what is apparently his prom date on his arm.

Bucky clears his throat from the doorway. “You found me,” he says.

Steve nearly drops the framed photo; as it is, it clatters hard against the top of the bureau when he tries to put it down. “I – I was just – Sorry, I – ”

“They’re just pictures, Steve; it’s not like you were digging through my ma’s underwear.” Bucky shakes his head. “Evan wants to know if you’re done getting dressed yet.”

“Almost,” Steve says, his face still flushed hot. “Just need to put my shoes on.”

“Well, come on; he might want to adjust you, and we still have to do hair and makeup.”

“What’s wrong with my hair?” Steve asks self-consciously, reaching up to touch the strands in question.

“Nothing,” Bucky replies, “but they sent a hair stylist and we’re going to let her do her job. Come on; it’s too late to back out now,” Bucky says cheerfully. Then he leads Steve back into the sitting room, where the tailor gets him up on the stool where Bucky was standing.

Bucky’s wearing black just like Steve, but his outfit is much more severe; he’s wearing a form fitting black suit made of some kind of shiny material, with a gorgeous blue shirt that brings out his eyes. He’s also wearing blue combat boots, and his suit has blue details in the hems and cuffs.

“You look good, Bucky,” Steve says, looking him over again.

Bucky smiles, and it’s not his movie-star smile but something that feels more real. “Thanks,” he says. “You do, too.”

“What, this old thing?” Steve says, grinning.

“Where is your jacket?” Evan demands, and Steve realizes he’s forgotten it.

“I’ll get it,” Jonathan says, darting into the bedroom and then coming back out again with it. Steve takes it with thanks and puts it on, letting Evan examine its fit and fall. Once the tailor is satisfied, he takes the jacket off again and lays it carefully over the back of a chair. Then he watches as the hair stylist goes to work on Bucky’s hair, carefully arranging it in a slicked-back style.

When it’s Steve’s turn, he gets a different treatment: the hair stylist puts some product in her hand and scrubs it over the top of his head, making the short ends stand up in a messy, windblown style. It’s quickly done. But the fun isn’t over; Steve quickly finds himself attacked by the makeup person, who decides that Steve needs a dramatic look, and shortly he’s wearing dark cranberry lipstick and sporting bright silver eye shadow and thick black mascara. “Don’t touch your face!” they tell Steve firmly. “You’ll ruin it.”

“I won’t,” Steve promises, despite the itch that’s already started beside his eye.

Bucky’s own look is more subdued; there’s no lipstick for him and only the faintest outline of blue above his eyes, serving to make them stand out even more dramatically.

They stand when it’s over and look at each other across the room. “Right,” Bucky says finally. “You look fantastic. Really glam rock.”

“So do you,” Steve says sincerely. “That blue really brings out your eyes.”

The makeup person hands Steve the cranberry lipstick. “I’m trusting you to reapply this yourself when you need it,” they say, and Steve nods, slipping it into his pocket.

“I’ll be careful,” he says. “Promise.”

“See that you are,” they reply severely, and then Steve and Bucky are by themselves again.

“So, what now?” Steve asks.

“Now we get in the car,” Bucky says. “And we have the Red Carpet Experience. Prepare to be dazzled.”

The man in the severe suit is still in the living room when they come out, though the man in the red pants is gone, and Bucky takes a minute to introduce them. “Steve, this is Phil Coulson, my manager. Phil, this is Steve, he’s… he’s a friend.”

“A friend?” Phil asks mildly. “That’s interesting; I thought I’d met most of your friends.” But he comes over to shake hands with Steve anyway.

“Most,” Bucky says, sounding a little defensive. “Not all.”

“Hmm,” Coulson says. Then he holds out a hand. “I need your phone.”

Steve stiffens. “For what?”

“Because you’re not allowed to bring them inside at the Gala,” Bucky explains, pulling his own phone out and handing it to Phil. “This way, if someone calls or there’s an issue, Phil can come get you.”

Steve, frowning, turns his phone completely off. “If someone calls me, they can wait,” he says, but he hands his phone to Phil anyway.

“Thank you,” Phil says politely. He tucks both phones into his suit pocket.

“Don’t worry,” Bucky says, turning and heading for the kitchen. “Phil is the soul of discretion. You want something to drink?”

“Water’d be great, thanks,” Steve says, starting to head that direction as well.

Phil touches Steve’s arm. “Just a moment,” he says quietly.

Steve raises an eyebrow. “Yes?”

“You’re new,” Phil says. “I don’t like new right now. Things are happening that you probably don’t know anything about, and now is a very bad time for you to be caught up in…” He pauses, waving an expressive hand. “All this.”

“How’s that your business?” Steve asks, defensive.

Phil smiles blandly. “Everything about Mr. Barnes is my business, Mr. Rogers. But as long as you don’t try to take advantage of him, we have no problems, you and I.” He steps back toward the window. “We’ll talk more again, I’m sure.”

Bucky returns from the kitchen just then with two bottles of water and tosses one to Steve.

Three hours later, Steve cracks open another bottle of water from the car’s minibar and stretches his legs out in front of him. “Boy, I gotta tell ya,” he says to Bucky, “I’m fucking dazzled.”

Bucky grins. “The Red Carpet Experience, man, I’m telling you. There’s nothing like sitting in a car for hours and hours until it’s your turn to walk in front of a hundred flashbulbs with people yelling your name from all directions.”

“I hope they hurry up,” Steve says, “or I’m gonna end up doing the I-gotta-pee dance all over that carpet.”

Bucky laughs, checking his watch. “Should be any time now,” he says. “And we actually go to a staging area before the carpet itself, so you’ll have a chance to pee and check your lipstick and all before we get out there.”

Steve nods. “Is it always like this?” he asks. “This boring?”

Bucky nods. “There’s moments of fun and excitement – like, getting out there and actually getting your picture taken? That’s fun. Getting a chance to go to the barricade and talk to some of the fans and stuff, that’s always fun. I love talking to the fans. But yeah, there’s a _lot_ of sitting around and waiting to be told what to do.”

Just then, someone opens the car door from outside. Bucky climbs out first and then offers his hand to Steve, who takes the help and climbs out as well. The afternoon sun is dazzling after the dim car interior, so Steve has to squint as they’re led from the car to the staging area.

Coulson is already there, but Steve is able to avoid him; he gets to use the bathroom and reapply his lipstick before he rejoins Bucky near the door to the staging tent. “Good timing,” Bucky says. “They’re almost ready for us.”

And then everything is a whirlwind: there’s the red carpet, which Steve will only remember as flashbulbs and people yelling and Bucky’s arm around his waist and Bucky’s voice in his ear giving him directions on where to move and how to stand. Bucky gets some pictures by himself and some with Steve, and then Steve gets some pictures by himself as well, mostly to model the peacock jacket at the direction of a Valentino representative. And then they’re inside, and there’s a fucking _receiving line_ , and Steve just gives up and follows Bucky’s lead, shaking hands and saying “Thank you, it’s Valentino” and smiling, smiling, always smiling, until they’re suddenly free of the line.

Bucky tugs him into an alcove and checks him over. “You doing okay?”

“Yeah, I’m okay,” Steve says, shaking himself briefly. “It’s just kind of a lot.”

“Yeah, it is. And it’s gonna get more _a lot_ in a minute because we’re about to go out and be around all the celebrities in their fancy outfits. And believe me, I get it – I still feel like a little squeaking fanboy around most of these people. But you gotta keep your cool, okay?”

“I’ll do my best,” Steve promises. “At the very least, I’ll try not to embarrass you.”

Bucky smiles. “You’re doing great, Steve, I promise.”

“Thanks.”

“Come on; let’s go look at the exhibit.”

They look at the exhibit and they circulate amongst the people, and Steve finds himself confronted by tons of celebrities and surrounded by glitz and glamour – and Steve meets at least twenty people he never thought he’d have the chance to. There are tons of photographs being taken by proper photographers, and Steve has _got_ to find out how to get copies of them, because a picture of himself between Katy Perry and Lady Gaga is something he’ll treasure for the rest of his life, and by the time they go in to dinner, Steve is not starstruck any more at all – after the photograph, he actually has a five minute conversation with Lady Gaga about her costume, and she confides in him that it was both heavy and uncomfortable, and he confides in her that the silver eye shadow was making his eyes itch badly but that he’s afraid if he scratches, he’ll ruin it, and they laugh together about the vagaries and absurdities of fashion, and Steve realizes that these people, just like himself, are _people_ , just with maybe a fancier job than most.

So they go in to dinner and Cher performs and it is all absolutely amazing, and Steve is able to look at it all with clearer eyes than maybe he had last year when he watched the red carpet on the television. He studies everyone, not with the eyes of a fan, but with the eyes of an artist, and he sees so many things he never would have noticed before, like the uncomfortable curve of a spine here or the heaviness of a fabric there, this woman surreptitiously sliding her shoes off under the table and that man leaning against the wall and looking for just a moment like he’d rather be anywhere but here.

Steve’s hands itch for a paintbrush, a pencil, anything to get those images down out of his head and onto paper. But there is no way; it’ll have to wait. So he locks those images into his mind instead, and turns his attention to his date.

After the performance, they stick around for maybe another half hour before Bucky guides Steve out a side door an a porter shows them to their car. They head back to Bucky’s apartment, where they change out of their fancy clothes, hanging them up carefully and putting them in the coat closet by the front door to be picked up the following day. Bucky invites Steve to take a shower so he can wash away the glitter and hair product, and Steve takes him up on it, surprised when Bucky shows him into the master bathroom. He doesn’t look a gift horse in the mouth, though; the word “well-appointed” doesn’t even begin to describe the facilities, and Steve ducks into the hottest shower he can stand.

When he comes out, he’s dressed in a t-shirt and jeans, but he finds Bucky sitting on the side of his bed, watching for his exit, and he recognizes the moment. “Ah,” he says softly, and he smiles.

Bucky laughs, just a little bit. “Is this okay?” he says. “If you’re not comfortable, say so – I won’t hold it against you.”

“It’s totally okay,” Steve says, pulling his t-shirt off and tossing it aside. “I promise, if I wasn’t comfortable, I’d say so.”

Bucky nods. “Okay, then,” he says, and he holds out a hand.

Bucky’s wearing a pair of worn, soft cotton sweatpants, and Steve drops to his knees, reaching up to catch the waistband and pull them down and off. Bucky’s beautiful in the nude, classically sculpted, and Steve grins, poking him in the abs. “You don’t have to flex for me,” he says. “Breathe.”

Laughing softly, Bucky does, and he goes a little softer around the middle. Steve rubs at his skin. “There you go,” he says. “Just relax; let me drive.”

Bucky does.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I should add a note that the timeline here is ambiguous as hell and there's obviously no COVID in this universe, so... *shrug* Yeah. :)

The day after the Gala, Steve has Sam and Sharon over. He makes meatball sliders and they debrief around the kitchen table. “It was pretty amazing,” Steve says. “I got my picture taken with Katy Perry and Lady Gaga. I think they thought I was a professional model.”

“You looked like one,” Sharon says around a mouthful of food. “All that dramatic makeup and that amazing jacket.”

“I kind of was one,” Steve admits. “Everything I was wearing was Valentino except my socks and underwear.”

“Nobody needs to know about your tighty whities,” Sam protests, and squawks when Steve stands up and pretends to unzip his pants.

“So what did you do after?” Sharon asks. “Was there an afterparty?”

“If there was, we didn’t go,” Steve says. “We went back to his place instead.”

She raises an eyebrow in eloquent question; he simply shrugs and nods. She blows out a breath. “Was he any good, at least?”

“I _don’t want to know this,_ ” Sam says desperately.

Ignoring him, Steve says, “He didn’t. I just, you know.” Out of respect for Sam’s delicate sensibilities, he doesn’t go into detail.

“Ah,” Sharon says, and she probably _does_ know – she’s debriefed with him after dates before. “Well, you were at least safe, right?”

“Absolutely,” Steve replies. “I’m always safe with clients.”

“And he didn’t try to make you do anything you didn’t want to do?”

Steve shakes his head. “He was actually very considerate. I think if I’d said no, he’d have been totally fine with it, _and_ I think we’d still be seeing each other. But, you know, I was fine with it. So it went fine.”

“Say fine one more time, and it’ll lose all meaning,” Sam points out.

Steve laughs. “No, you’re right. Let me try again. I consented, a hundred percent, and I think even if I hadn’t, he wouldn’t have forced me and he wouldn’t have fired me. But I _did_ , and it was, well, it was fine. Good, even.”

Sam nods. “As long as you’re not doing things you’re not comfortable with.”

“He’s not Pierce,” Steve says. “He’s… I think he’s a decent guy. Honestly, the biggest thing I get from him is that I think he’s lonely.”

“Poor little rich boy,” Sharon says, a little sarcastically.

Steve shakes his head. “Can’t be easy,” he points out. “Consider the rumors. If they were true – and I don’t know if they were or not – I’m pretty sure he’s clean now, and you know how it is when you stop running with a crowd, right? You don’t have another crowd to run with, so you find yourself suddenly without any friends.”

“Man’s got a point,” Sam says.

Sharon tilts her head in acknowledgement. “Fair enough.” She takes another bite of slider before saying, “And I mean, as long as you’re comfortable with what’s going on and with how much you’re getting paid, then it’s not really my business to judge.”

“Sharon, we’ve been best friends since high school,” Steve replies. “If anyone has space to judge me, it’s you.”

“Okay, true,” Sharon says. “But I’m not judging. Like I said, as long as you’re comfortable with everything.”

“I am,” Steve says. “I promise.”

“Okay, then.”

After dinner they sit down to watch a movie, and halfway through it, Sam yelps and scrabbles for the remote, pausing the video. Steve and Sharon both look at him like he’s gone insane, but he turns his phone to face them both. “TMZ wants to know who Steve is!”

Steve nods. “Bucky said that might happen,” he says. He shivers a little.

Sam reads aloud from the website. “Bucky Barnes, film star, came down the carpet with an unknown model on his arm. The pair, dressed in Valentino, caused quite a stir, especially since Barnes hasn’t been seen with anyone since last year’s rumors of drug abuse and rehab, and has never been seen with a man. Is this a prelude to a coming-out?”

Steve grits his teeth. “They’re never going to stop looking for me if they think I’m a model.”

“And they’ll find you, if they’re persistent enough,” Sharon comments. Steve nods.

“Well, if they do, what are you going to tell them?”

Steve shrugs one shoulder. “Bucky and I agreed to say that we met online without giving any more details than that,” he says. “So that’s what I’ll tell ‘em. And if they ask about my job or whatever, I’ll tell them I’m an artist; Bucky said he doesn’t mind me riding his coat tails.”

“Maybe it’ll get you a real showing,” Sharon says, ever hopeful.

“Maybe,” Steve says. “In the meantime, I’m just going to brace myself.”

“You should ask Bucky if he has any tips for dealing with the paparazzi.” Sam suggests. “At least they’re saying nice things; your outfit was nice and you looked nice in it, basically.”

“Well, that’s something,” Steve agrees. He puts the movie back on, then pulls his phone out and sends Bucky a text. _TMZ picked me up,_ he says. _They think I’m a model._

_I was just getting ready to text you,_ Bucky replies immediately. _I just saw the article. It’s a great picture of us._

Steve googles the article, looks at the picture, and has to agree. _It really is,_ he says. _What does your PR team think about it?_

_They’re over the moon. Good press, even though they did bring up those damn rumors. Apparently they’ve fielded a lot of questions today about my orientation and whether or not I’m coming out._

Steve grimaces. _That sucks._

_Kinda, but it’s better than being asked if I spent time in rehab,_ Bucky points out. _Are you doing anything tomorrow? Maybe we could get lunch and annoy the paps by no-commenting them._

_Sounds fun,_ Steve replies. _Your place?_

_Meet me at the Brown Fox in SoHo,_ Bucky says. _1:30._

_Will do,_ Steve agrees, and puts his phone away. He turns his attention back to the movie, but Sharon is watching him knowingly. “Texting him?”

Steve shrugs. “Didn’t know if he’d seen the article yet, and we made plans to meet up tomorrow for lunch.”

“Strictly to annoy the paparazzi?” she asks.

Steve grins. “Exactly.”

She shakes her head. “You’re each as bad as the other.”

“See?” Steve says. “It’s working out just fine.”

“Shh,” Sam interrupts. “Talking over the movie.”

“Sorry,” Steve and Sharon chorus, and then they shut up and watch the rest of the movie.

The next morning, Steve rolls out of bed and checks the website for the Brown Fox to see what kind of place it is so that he knows how to dress. He decides on a pair of skinny jeans, a nice button-up shirt, and a pair of combat boots. He considers eyeliner, discards the idea, and then comes back to it before deciding to hell with it and lining his eyes. At last satisfied with the way he looks, he settles himself in front of his computer and works on a commission until it’s time to leave.

He gets to the restaurant just as Bucky rounds the corner, and he waves, then waits for Bucky to join him. “Hey,” he says.

“Hey,” Bucky replies, grinning. “How was your morning?”

“Productive,” Steve replies. “I finished a piece of _The Witcher_ fanart and got started on one for _Riverdale._ ”

“You watch that?” Bucky asks, opening the door and holding it for Steve.

“I watched _The Witcher,_ ” Steve replies, walking past him and into the restaurant. “Never seen _Riverdale._ All I need are character references, though, and I can draw just about anything.”

“I haven’t seen either one,” Bucky says as they stride up to the hostess station. “Is _The Witcher_ any good?”

“Yeah, I liked it,” Steve says, nodding. “You decide to watch it, let me know; I’ll watch it with you.”

Bucky smiles, bright and happy. “Sure,” he says. “That sounds fun.” To the hostess he says, “Two, please. By a window if it’s not too much trouble.”

She gives him a dubious look. “You sure? I mean, it’s not my business, but I know who you are, and you’ll end up with the paparazzi outside the window.”

“Yeah, that’s the point,” Bucky replies. “Unless you think it’ll cause too much of a disruption.”

She considers him. “I’ll put you by the back window,” she says after a moment. “You’ll still get traffic, but there won’t be as many other customers for you to bother.”

He smiles at her. “Good thinking.”

She leads them through the restaurant and seats them at a table by a window, where they have a view of street and sidewalk but there aren’t any tables with other customers around. “Nice spot,” he says as they’re sitting down. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome,” she replies, putting down the menus on the table. “Jerry’ll be with you in a moment.” She turns and heads back to the stand up front, and Bucky rests his elbow on the table, chin on his hand.

“So,” he says, “how was it, seeing yourself on TMZ?”

“Surreal,” Steve replies, shaking his head. “Never thought I’d be on a paparazzi website.”

“Just be glad it wasn’t Perez Hilton,” Bucky says, lips twisting a little.

Steve shudders. “God, I hate that guy.”

Jerry comes to take their orders and vanishes again, and Steve leans forward a little bit, hands clasped in his lap. “So,” he says, “have you decided whether you’re coming out?”

“I am,” Bucky replies. “My PR guys are putting something together. They wanted me to go on _Ellen_ but I feel like that’s a little bit of a cliché. I might just do a print interview in _Out_ or something.”

“That would be good,” Steve says. “I bet they put you on the cover.”

“I bet they do, too,” Bucky agrees, but without the pride that might have come along with such a statement. He sighs, shaking his head. “Well. If it helps a closeted kid find his way out, then I’ll go on the cover.”

Steve tilts his head. “You don’t want the cover?”

Bucky shrugs. “I mean, it’s good publicity,” he says.

Steve considers him. “And they’re after you for good publicity,” he intuits.

“Yeah.” Bucky rubs his face with one hand. “You know the rumors.”

“I do,” Steve replies. “And it’s not my business.”

“Well.” Bucky shrugs, looking out the window for a minute before looking back at Steve. “Anyway, yeah, they’re after me to do good publicity.”

“Can I help?”

Bucky shakes his head. “No, but thank you. I’m not going to tell people I have a boyfriend or anything; if they ask about you, I’m just going to say you’re a friend.”

“They’ll put two and two together,” Steve says, a little wry. “You might as well tell them we’re seeing each other. And I mean, it’s not _technically_ a lie. I can see you right now.” He widens his eyes, giving Bucky a creepy stare.

Bucky laughs. “Yeah, okay,” he says. “That’s fair.”

“Just remember, we met online and otherwise it’s nobody’s business,” Steve says. Then he tilts his head the other way. “Wow, you know, celebrity is a lot more complicated than I thought it would be.”

“It’s all in how you use it.”

“That’s what she said,” Steve replies, waggling his eyebrows and grinning.

Bucky groans. “That was terrible. _Terrible._ ”

“You’re welcome.”

Their food arrives and they set about eating; after a few minutes Bucky says, “The pictures from the Gala will be up in a couple of days on a gallery; want me to get you copies of the ones you’re in?”

“Oh, yes, please,” Steve says. “There’s a couple of them that I _really_ want.”

Bucky nods. “Will do.”

They chat idly as they eat, but they’re almost done before Steve sees the first photographer aimed at them. “Oh, there they are.”

“They’ve been there for about five minutes,” Bucky replies. “You’ll get used to them and start noticing where they hide. Give me your hand?”

Steve reaches his hand across the table and Bucky takes it, tangling his fingers with Steve’s. “So, this might actually call for a renegotiation.”

Steve raises an eyebrow. “How so?”

“Well, you didn’t sign up to pretend to be my boyfriend.”

Steve shrugs. “Honestly, it’s as much for me as it is for you. If people are going to get to know me from reflected fame, I’d rather they thought I was your artist boyfriend than…” He trails off, glancing around.

“Yeah, good point,” Bucky replies, nodding. “Oh, that reminds me, I brought you something.”

“Oh, you didn’t have to – ” Steve begins, only to be cut off by Bucky’s raised hand.

“I told you,” Bucky says, “how I spend my money is my choice.”

“Right, sorry,” Steve says. “How about if I say _thank you_ instead?”

Bucky smiles. “You’re welcome,” he says, pushing a small box toward Steve.

Steve opens the box to find that it contains a gorgeous Bulgari watch. He blinks at it, looking up at Bucky with a slightly open mouth, and then back down at the watch again. “Wow,” he finally says. “That’s gorgeous.” He puts it on immediately; it’s heavy and masculine, and it looks terrific on his admittedly delicate wrist. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” Bucky says again, smiling. “It looks good on you.”

“Yeah, it does,” Steve admits. “It’s perfect.”

When they leave the restaurant, Steve tucks the watch box into his messenger bag, and they link hands, strolling up the sidewalk. The paparazzi accost them almost immediately, and Bucky very firmly gives them _no comment_ to every question they ask. Finally, as though fed up, he whistles down a taxi, and they both climb in.

The driver asks where to take them, and Bucky looks over at Steve. “Care to come up and watch _The Witcher_ with me?”

“Sure,” Steve replies. “I got noplace else to be.”

Bucky gives the driver the nearest intersection to his house, and they pull away from the clamoring paparazzi, zipping into Manhattan’s afternoon traffic.


	5. Chapter 5

Bucky officially comes out about three weeks after the Met Gala. He’d talked about doing  _Out_ magazine, but  _The Advocate_ gets him first. He still gets the cover and a three-page interview that includes a picture of him and Steve on the red carpet. Steve’s a little uncomfortable with his image being in the magazine, but as he’d told Bucky in the beginning, he’s been out to everyone in his life since high school, so it’s not like anyone is going to be surprised, except about the identity of the person he’s “seeing”.

The interview appears on _The Advocate_ ’s website a week before it comes out in print; Steve reads the article at home and sends Bucky a text. _Just got done reading your Advocate interview. It’s great._

_You think?_ Bucky replies. _I was a little nervous that I came off like a chump._

_No, it was really good,_ Steve assures him. _I was impressed._

There’s a minute or so of silence, and then Steve’s phone rings. He swipes to answer. “Hey, Bucky.”

“I started to type everything out but it occurred to me that it would be easier to just call you,” Bucky says, a grin audible in his voice. “So you thought I came off okay?”

“Yeah, it was good,” Steve says. “Promise.”

“You were okay with how I talked about you?”

Steve glances at his laptop, where the article is still open. _His name’s Steve,_ Bucky had said. _He’s an artist. We haven’t been seeing each other very long, but I like him a lot, and I flatter myself to think he likes me pretty well, too._

“I thought it was great,” Steve says. “I’m bracing for the impact of when they find me, but at least my Instagram is just my original art and not my fanart. Weird fetish porn pays the bills, but it doesn’t do much for your portfolio.”

Bucky laughs. “I imagine that’s true,” he agrees. “I can give out your Instagram account the next time someone asks, if you want me to.”

Steve shrugs one shoulder, even though Bucky can’t see him. “If you want to,” he says. “It’s @steve_rogers.”

“Very creative,” Bucky says.

Steve snorts. “I mean, I could’ve gone with xxDarkAngelxx but that’s a little 2010, don’t you think?”

“Steve,” Bucky says, unsuccessfully attempting to smother laughter, “were you a scene kid?”

“ _God,_ no,” Steve blurts. “Bite your tongue.”

Bucky loses the battle with laughter then, and Steve laughs with him, just for the sheer ridiculousness of the idea of him being a scene kid. When they’ve settled, Steve says, “So what’s next on your big event agenda?”

“Nothing for awhile,” Bucky says. “I’ve got another red carpet in a month or so in Los Angeles; it’s a movie premiere. You want to go? I’m covering the ticket.”

“Sure,” Steve blurts before he can think better of it. “I’ve never been to California.”

“It’s not that great,” Bucky tells him. “Hot all the time. But it’s pretty, and there’s work there.”

“And the Pacific Ocean,” Steve says. “And the La Brea Tar Pits and things.”

“True. Maybe we’ll take a couple of days and do the tourist thing before we come back, would you be free to do that?”

“Sure,” Steve says. “I don’t even need to get anybody to mind the cat.”

“You have a cat?”

“No; that’s why I don’t need anyone to mind it.”

Bucky laughs again. Steve has the brief thought that he could get used to that sound, but then he shakes his head at himself. Silly thought. He says, “Is your publicist guy still mad about me?”

“Mostly that I didn’t tell him I was seeing you up front,” Bucky replies. “But then, he still doesn’t know about our arrangement. He thinks we’re just dating.”

“That’s fine,” Steve says. “I’m totally okay with him _not_ knowing. Is there anyone else who might worry?”

“I, um.” Bucky pauses. “I was actually getting to that.”

“Oh?” Steve asks, a sinking feeling in his stomach.

“Yeah, uh. My mom… she wants to meet you.”

Steve is silent for a long moment, staring out the window. “Um,” he finally says.

“I know, I know,” Bucky says hastily. “But I… I don’t want to disappoint her.”

“I mean…” Steve trails off for a minute. “I mean, we talked about pretending to date, but… you sure you wanna lie to your mom like that?”

“Well, I can’t very well tell her the truth, can I?” Bucky replies, his tone flat and even.

Steve hums in acknowledgement. “Fair enough,” he says. “So what does this look like?”

“I thought we might have brunch with her this Saturday, if you don’t have plans already.” Bucky clears his throat. “I made reservations at a place near where she lives in Flatbush.” He takes a deep breath. “It would… really mean a lot to me if you’d help me out with this.”

“Yeah, okay,” Steve says after a long moment of consideration. “I’ll probably end up regretting it, but okay.”

Bucky blows out a breath of relief. “ _Thank you_ ,” he says. “I promise you won’t regret it.”

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep,” Steve replies a little darkly.

Saturday morning dawns overcast and rainy, but Steve tries not to let the weather affect his mood. He can do this. He can sit through brunch with _Bucky’s mother_ and smile and pretend he’s actually dating her son.

He hopes.

He dresses as nicely as he can: a plain black button-up shirt and his nicest pair of blue jeans. In deference to the weather, he wears his boots rather than a nicer pair of shoes. Then he changes his mind, puts on the nicer shoes, and sends for a Lyft. He can afford it now that Bucky’s covering his bills.

The car drops him off right in front of the restaurant and Steve hoofs it inside as quickly as he can to avoid getting drenched; he’s only a little damp when he gets inside. He goes up to the maître d’ and gives the name Sullivan.

“Ah, yes, your party’s already here,” the young woman replies. “Come on back.”

She leads him through the restaurant to a back corner – away from the windows this time, Steve notes – and he finds that Bucky and his mother are in fact already there. Bucky stands, leaning over to drop a kiss on Steve’s cheek, and then turns to his mom. “Mom, this is Steve. Steve, this is my mom, Winifred Barnes.”

Steve offers his hand to shake. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Barnes.”

“It’s Winnie, Steve,” she says, shaking his hand.

He seats himself when she lets go of his hand, and Bucky sits as well. A waiter comes and takes Steve’s drink order, and when he leaves again, Winnie pounces. “So, Steve,” she says, “tell me about yourself.”

Steve smiles. “I’m twenty-five,” he says. “Brooklyn born and bred; I grew up in Bed-Stuy. I’m an artist.”

“How did you two meet?”

Bucky sighs. “Mom, I told you, we met online.”

“Maybe I wanted to hear Steve’s perspective; did you think about that?” Winnie asks sharply.

Steve suddenly realizes what’s happening; Bucky’s mom is worried that Steve is going to take advantage of Bucky. Or possibly – depending on whether the rumors were true – that Steve might be a bad influence. He coughs delicately and gives her his most reassuring smile. “Winnie,” he says carefully, weighing each word, “I didn’t know who he was when I agreed to go out with him. I make a living off my art; I don’t need his money.”

And while that’s technically true, what she doesn’t know won’t hurt her.

They’re interrupted by the waiter bringing Steve’s drink and asking for their orders; when he’s gone again, Winnie sniffs. “If you’re such a good artist, why haven’t I heard of you?”

“I’m afraid I’m not terribly well known as an artist yet,” Steve admits. “I make most of my living doing commissions. But I hope to make it big one day.”

“And Bucky can help with that?” she asks, eyeballing him.

Steve gives a half-shrug of acknowledgement. “Sure he can,” he says. “But he doesn’t need to. I’ll make it eventually, with or without his help.”

“Mom,” Bucky says desperately, “I haven’t even told anybody about his Instagram or anything. He’s not _using_ me.”

“Hm,” Winnie says in a tone of deep skepticism.

“ _Mom_ ,” Bucky groans.

Steve laughs softly. “Honestly, Winnie, I don’t blame you for being skeptical. I would be, too. All I ask is that you give me a chance. Maybe the benefit of the doubt for a little while. Okay?”

“I’m his mother,” she says simply.

Steve nods. “I’m sure my mom would have felt the same way, given the circumstances. She was pretty protective, too.”

“I have good reason to be.”

“Of course you do,” Steve says. “Just give me a chance, hm?”

She studies him for a long moment, then nods. “One chance,” she says firmly.

He smiles. “I’ll try my best not to disappoint you.”

“See that you don’t,” she says simply.

Bucky, by now beet red, has buried his face in his hands. “Are you two done yet?”

Steve reaches over and rubs his back. “It’s okay,” he says. “Your mom’s just looking out for you. And I understand it.” He pats Bucky’s back, then takes Bucky’s hand away from his face, twining their fingers together. “Come on, it’s okay. I think we’re done negotiating.”

Winnie laughs at that. “Yes,” she says. “We’re done.”

“Good,” Steve says, smiling back at her. “So tell me about you,” he says. “Bucky tells me you work with underprivileged kids.”

By the time they’re done with brunch, it’s finally stopped raining. Bucky summons a Lyft for his mother and sees her into it with gallant care and a kiss on the cheek. “Love you,” he says to her as he closes the door, and she waves through the window. Once she’s gone, Bucky turns to Steve and leans forward, resting his forehead on Steve’s shoulder. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I had no idea she’d do the whole third degree grilling thing.”

“I kind of expected it,” Steve replies. “She’s concerned that I might be trying to take advantage of you. Your manager did the same thing, you know.”

“Phil?” Bucky raises his head. “What did he say?”

“Just that I was new and he wasn’t comfortable with that, but that as long as I don’t take advantage of you, we don’t have a problem.” Steve smiled. “You’ve got people that care about you. That’s a good thing, Bucky.”

Bucky grumbles a little. “I guess.” He turns and starts up the street; Steve follows. “Where you headed next?” he asks.

“Don’t know,” Bucky admits. “Just… maybe taking a walk.”

“Want company?” Steve offers.

Bucky smiles at him. “Sure,” he says, “though I’m not sure how good of company I’ll be.”

“That’s okay,” Steve replies. “We can just walk; you don’t have to entertain me.”

They wander for a little while, window shopping at some of the little boutiques and occasionally going into one. Steve spies a number of things that he wants, and Bucky buys them all, not letting Steve spend any of his own money. “It’s on me this afternoon, Steve,” he says. “You did me a huge favor this morning and I won’t forget it.”

By midafternoon, they’ve walked off Bucky’s funk and Steve’s so loaded down with bags that he’s having trouble carrying them all. Bucky drags him to a bench to sit and calls for a Lyft to pick them up. “You look done in,” he says. “Why didn’t you tell me you were getting tired?”

Steve shrugs. “I’m fine,” he says. “I can do this all day.”

Bucky shakes his head. “You wouldn’t admit it under torture, would you?”

“I really am fine,” Steve protests. “Believe me, if I was really tired, I’d say so. I don’t want to risk an asthma attack or something.”

Bucky immediately gets a worried look on his face. “You’re not, are you?”

“ _No,_ ” Steve says firmly. “I am _fine._ ”

The Lyft turns up just then, saving them from continuing the conversation; they load Steve and his bags in on one side and Bucky on the other, and Steve gives the driver his address. When they arrive, there’s an awkward moment in the back seat before Steve finally says, “You wanna come up? Watch a movie or something?”

“Sure,” Bucky blurts. They shuffle the bags between the two of them and get out, and Steve leads the way into the building and up to the third floor. Fortunately the elevator is working – sometimes it goes on the fritz, and Steve would not have wanted to haul all those bags up the stairs. When they get out, Steve says, “This is me, 3B.” He sets down his bags and pulls his key out, unlocking the door and then stepping back to let Bucky precede him into the living room.

“Hey, this is a nice place,” Bucky says, moving to put bags down in Steve’s grandfather’s wing chair. “Should I take my shoes off?”

“Please,” Steve replies, kicking off his own shoes before putting his bags down on the chair as well. “Welcome to my humble abode,” he says. “It’s not as grand as yours,” he adds with a grin, “but it’s home.” Then he points. “Living room, kitchen. Two bedrooms and a bathroom down the hall.”

“Hey, for Brooklyn, this is pretty damn nice,” Bucky says. “Especially given that it’s rent-free.”

“Yeah, I have no complaints about that,” Steve says. “Make yourself at home. You want anything to drink?”

“Just water, if you don’t mind.”

“Not at all.” Steve gets a couple bottles of water out of the fridge for them, and he settles on the couch beside Bucky, reaching for the television remote. “Want to finish _The Witcher_?”

“Sure,” Bucky says. “I’m really into it.”

“You know there’s books and video games, too, right?”

“I did not know that,” Bucky says.

“Yeah, I just finished the second book; I’m waiting on the next one from the library.” Steve flips the TV on and navigates to his Netflix account, then pulls up the show. “I haven’t played the video games, but I’ve heard the third one is really good.”

“I’ll check them out,” Bucky says. “Are the books good?”

“Yeah,” Steve says. “I’m enjoying them. Worried about Ciri, but enjoying them all the same.”

“Somebody needs to be worried about Ciri,” Bucky grumbles as the next episode comes up on the screen.

Steve just laughs.


	6. Chapter 6

True to his word, Bucky gives out Steve’s Instagram name the next time someone asks him about Steve. Steve’s follower count blows up in a matter of hours, and he’s not quite sure how to take the sudden onslaught. Then he sells ten pieces in a week and he’s not sure how to take that, either. He definitely feels like he’s taking advantage of Bucky.

Bucky, on the other hand, is tickled pink. “I think it’s fantastic,” he says to Steve as they shower together after what even Steve has to admit was some pretty mind-blowing sex. “Look at it this way: if you were a terrible artist, you wouldn’t be getting any traction and people would probably be publicly making fun of me for promoting you. But you’re getting tons of traction and they’re calling you the next undiscovered gem of the art world or some shit, and nobody’s making fun of me. You did the work; all I did was… put you on a billboard.”

“Some billboard,” Steve replies, shaking his head. “I guess I should just be saying thanks.”

“That works, too,” Bucky replies, grinning and dropping a quick pinch to Steve’s ass. Steve squawks, and they both laugh.

“Have I told you,” Bucky says sometime later, as they sip coffee and watch an episode of _Queer Eye,_ “that I’m really glad I found your ad on that website?”

“No,” Steve says slowly. “I don’t think you have.”

“Well, I am,” Bucky says firmly. “You’re fun to hang out with and you’re frankly amazing in the sack and you’re pretty, to boot. I’m glad we met.”

“Well, thanks,” Steve says, grinning. “I am, too.”

Steve sleeps over that night, as he often does; in the morning, he makes his way home to Brooklyn and flops down on his couch, pulling out his phone and idly scrolling through his Instagram messages. There are tons of them. He had to turn off DMs because he was getting bombarded; now he just has to comb through his emails to try and find the ones that are people actually interested in buying art versus the ones who think he might be an easy link to get to Bucky.

He’s in the middle of deleting several such messages when his phone rings; it’s Sharon. “Hey,” he says when he answers. “What’s up?”

“Paparazzi followed you home,” she says. “Buzz me up.”

“Shit.” Steve goes to the door and hits the button; downstairs, the front door opens and Sharon is able to enter. She comes up in the elevator and he lets her into the apartment, then goes to the window and looks out at the street. Sure enough, there’s a photographer sitting on a bench across the street, watching the door.

“Shit,” Steve groans. “I shouldn’t have signed up for this.”

“You’re a celebrity now,” Sharon says softly.

“Maybe they’ll give up after they realize I’m not very interesting.”

“Maybe,” Sharon replies, in a tone that says she finds it unlikely. “What are you gonna do?”

“Nothing I _can_ do,” Steve says, shrugging. “The cat’s out of the bag. Did I tell you I sold another piece? Because I sold another piece. That’s eleven.”

She studies him. “Do you think it’s worth it?”

“I don’t know,” Steve tells her honestly. “All I can do is ride the ride at this point and see what happens.”

At that moment, Steve’s phone rings. He doesn’t recognize the number, so he lets it roll to voice mail; once the voice mail alert beeps, he plays it on speaker phone. “Hi, Mr. Rogers, my name is Patricia and I work for Pepper Potts of Stark Industries. Ms. Potts is interested in acquiring one of your paintings and possibly commissioning you for more work; if you could please give me a call back so that we can arrange something, I’d appreciate it.” She gives her direct number, and then disconnects.

Steve stares at Sharon. “Pepper Potts,” he says faintly.

“Well don’t just sit there!” Sharon exclaims. “Call her back!”

Fumbling a little in his haste, Steve does; when the phone is answered, it’s Patricia in a very professional voice. “Hi,” Steve says. “I’m, uh. Steve Rogers, returning your call.”

“Oh, Mr. Rogers, thank you so much for calling back so promptly.” Patricia says. “As I said in my message, Ms. Potts is interested in acquiring one of your pieces – I believe it’s entitled _Siobhan dans la cuisine_? I hope you still have it.”

“Oh, yes, of course,” Steve says. He knows that one fondly; it’s actually a painting of one of his favorite memories: his grandmother, in her kitchen in Ireland, pulling soda bread out of the oven. “Yes, I still have it.”

“Excellent,” Patricia says. “I’m authorized to offer you a thousand dollars for it.”

“I’ll take it,” Steve blurts; he’d had it up for awhile in a coffee shop at a hundred and nobody bought it.

“Excellent,” Patricia says again, and this time she’s audibly smiling. “If you could bring it by tomorrow about two o’clock, Ms. Potts would also like to talk to you about commissioning some work.”

“I can absolutely do that,” Steve replies immediately. “I’ll be there at two.”

“Excellent,” Patricia says. “They’ll have your name at the front desk; you’ll just need to show them your ID and they’ll get you where you need to go.”

“Sounds great,” Steve says. “Thank you.”

“Oh, thank _you,_ Mr. Rogers,” Patricia says. “Have a nice day.” And she hangs up.

He looks over at Sharon. “She wants that painting of my granny,” he says.

“The one where she’s baking? That you did in kind of an Impressionist style?”

“That’s the one,” Steve replies. “She wants it. She’s giving me a thousand dollars for it.”

Sharon’s eyes bug out. “Seriously?”

“ _And_ she wants to talk to me about commissioning a piece.”

“Holy shit,” Sharon breathes. “Steve, Pepper _Potts._ ”

“I _know,_ ” Steve moans, clutching at his phone.

The next morning, as Steve’s getting ready to head to Manhattan, Bucky texts him. _Come hang out this afternoon,_ he says. _I want to finally teach you about Geocaching._

 _Can’t,_ Steve replies. _Got an appointment for a consultation; Pepper Potts wants to buy my stuff!!!_

 _No shit!_ Bucky sends back. _Congrats! Maybe after?_

 _Yeah, I can do after,_ Steve tells him. _I’ll text you when I’m out._

 _Sounds good,_ Bucky says. _Ttyl._

At 1:50, Steve presents himself at the reception desk in the lobby of Stark Tower and gives his name to the receptionist. He shows his ID and is provided with a visitor badge, then guided to the elevator and told to report to the forty-third floor. He does so, and meets Patricia face to face. A tall, very dark skinned Black woman, Patricia smiles at him and gestures to the painting. “Is that it?”

“That’s it,” Steve says. “Shall I unwrap it?”

“No, no, save that for Ms. Potts,” Patricia replies. “But here.” She draws an envelope out of her desk and offers it to him; inside it is a check from Stark Industries for a thousand dollars.

“Thank you,” Steve says, imagining the numbers in his savings account, and he folds the check up and tucks it into his shirt pocket.

“You’re quite welcome,” Patricia replies. Then she gestures to a chair. “Please, have a seat. Ms. Potts is on an international conference call; it’s run over, as usual, so she’ll be a few minutes. Can I get you anything? Water, coffee?”

“Oh, no, thank you,” Steve says. “I’m fine.” He sits down, placing the painting carefully in the chair beside him, and pulls his phone out to check his messages.

Patricia goes back to work, the clack of her keyboard a soothing undertone to the quiet of the floor. She occasionally answers the phone, taking messages from all callers, and then finally, about 2:30, she says, “Ah!” and picks up the receiver on her desk. “Ms. Potts,” she says into it, “Steven Rogers is here to see you.”

There’s a moment’s pause, and then Patricia says, “Yes ma’am,” and hangs the phone up. Then she stands. “Ms. Potts is ready to see you now.”

She holds the door open for Steve to pass through, then leaves the room discreetly. Pepper Potts stands up and comes around her desk, offering her hand to Steve. “Mr. Rogers,” she says, shaking his hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“And you as well, Ms. Potts,” he says, “but please, call me Steve.”

“Then you’ll call me Pepper,” Pepper says. She smiles, gesturing to the painting in his hands. “May I?”

“Oh, of course,” Steve says, handing it to her.

She pulls on the knot in the twine he’s wrapped around the painting, then draws the paper away from the canvas and holds it up to the light coming in through the floor-to-ceiling windows. “Beautiful,” she says. “Absolutely beautiful. I’m so pleased.” She smiles at him. “Tell me,” she says, “who’s Siobhan?”

“My grandmother,” Steve admits. “My dad’s mom.”

“She’s lovely,” Pepper says. “I can tell that a lot of love went into this painting. It’s fantastic.”

He grins widely. “Thank you, Pepper. That means a lot.”

Pepper carefully sets the painting aside on a coffee table nearby and says, “Now, about that commission.”

It turns out that Pepper wants a series of paintings for the lobby of her office; she’s tired of what’s there and wants something new. And she likes Steve’s Impressionist work and wants more of it. “You see what’s out there now,” she says. “All that abstract stuff. I’m tired of it. I want nature scenes. Water lilies, if you will, though not necessarily _water lilies._ ”

“I understand,” Steve says, considering the space. “You have a lot of red and yellow out there right now. I’m thinking greens and blues. Maybe a forest series? Trees, water, that kind of thing.”

“As long as I don’t end up with Bambi,” Pepper says.

Steve laughs. “I would never. No, no animals, just… cool. Calming. The kind of place you could walk in for hours and never get tired of it because it’s just so lovely.”

“Yes, that sounds nice,” Pepper says.

“I’ll work up some sketches for you,” Steve says, “and you can see what I mean, and tell me if you like it, and then we’ll go from there. How many do you want?”

“Six,” Pepper says. “All about the same size as the ones out there already.”

Steve nods. “I’ll take a look at the sizes,” he says. “I didn’t examine them closely when I came in.”

She smiles. “Excellent,” she says. “How much?”

Steve chews his lip for a moment and then says, “How does five hundred each sound?”

She studies him. “You’re new at this,” she says.

“Too much?” he asks, wincing.

“Not enough,” she replies. “You’re lowballing, deeply. But I am a benevolent taskmistress, so I’ll point out that I just paid you a thousand dollars for a non-commissioned painting that I saw on your Instagram and just had to have, and also point out that you’re now being _commissioned_ to make works to order.”

Steve considers this, then says, “Two thousand each?”

“That’s more like it,” she says. “Fifteen hundred.”

“Seventeen hundred,” Steve says, meeting her in the middle, “and I’ll do you a small watercolor of whichever one ends up being your favorite.”

“Sold,” Pepper laughs, shaking his hand. “Work up the sketches and then call Patricia to set something up so we can take a look at them together.”

“I’ll do that,” he says. “It’ll be a few days.”

“Of course it will,” she says, gently showing him toward the office door. “You can’t rush genius, as Tony is always telling me.”

Steve laughs, then shakes her hand again at the door. “Thank you again, Pepper.”

“You’re welcome, Steve. I look forward to seeing you again.”

With stars – and, he has to admit, dollar signs – in his eyes, Steve says goodbye to Patricia and heads back out of the building. He stops to return his visitor badge, then texts Bucky. _I’m out,_ he says. _Still want to go Geocaching?_

 _Sure,_ Bucky replies. _Come on over. I hope you’ve got good walking shoes on._

Steve looks down at his boots. They’re plenty comfortable for walking in, so he just texts back _yup_ and heads out onto the street. He catches a cab from midtown down to Tribeca and gets dropped off at Bucky’s intersection. The doorman lets him in, and Steve heads upstairs. He pauses in the elevator to take the check out of his shirt pocket and tuck it into the zippered pocket inside his messenger bag, and then he knocks on Bucky’s door.

Bucky opens the door and grins at him. “Come on in. Hey, you look nice, are you sure you wanna go traipsing all around in that?”

“Oh, sure, it’ll be fine,” Steve replies. “My boots are well broken in.”

“If you say so,” Bucky says. “Or hey, if you want, we can swing out to your place and you can change, and we can do this all around your apartment.”

“They have them around my apartment?” Steve asks, surprised.

“Oh, Steve,” Bucky replies. “There are caches _everywhere._ This city is like Mecca for Geocaching. Believe me, they’re all over the place in all five boroughs.”

“Well, okay, if you’re sure you don’t mind the trip,” Steve says.

“Not at all. I’d rather you be comfortable.” Bucky grabs his wallet and keys. “C’mon, let’s head out.”

They get a taxi to Steve’s corner and head upstairs so Steve can change into jeans, a t-shirt, and his comfortable chucks, and then they head out. Bucky pulls up the app on his phone, cajoles Steve into putting it on his phone, and gets him signed up for an account; then they start hunting caches in earnest.

Four hours later, Bucky says, “I’m starving. You hungry? Let’s get some pizza.”

“Sounds great,” Steve says. Over pepperoni and mushrooms, he says, “So that was actually a lot of fun. I’m glad you got me started on it.”

“Awesome!” Bucky says, grinning. “I’m glad you enjoyed it. We’ll have to do it again sometime.”

“Anytime you want,” Steve says. “Just warn me ahead of time so I remember to bring walking shoes.”

“We’ll get you some to keep at my place,” Bucky says. “You should have some stuff there anyway. We’ll go shopping next week.”

Steve opens his mouth to protest, remembers Bucky’s rule about money, and shuts it again. “Okay,” he says simply. “We can do that.”

Bucky smiles. “Excellent,” he says. “I can’t wait.”


	7. Chapter 7

The week is busy; Steve spends a number of hours working up oil-crayon sketches for Pepper to show what the finished products will look like. He spends time with Sam and Sharon and resolutely does  _not_ talk about Bucky with them, instead focusing on letting them talk about their own lives for once. And he finds himself fielding calls and Facebook friend requests from people he hasn’t seen or spoken to in years who suddenly want to be best friends now that he’s a marginal celebrity. It’s kind of annoying.

He also spends time with Bucky almost every day; they go Geocaching again, this time doing a series of virtual caches in Central Park that leads them to thirty-two bridges and arches all over the park, a scavenger hunt in which they learn a lot about bridge architecture and the history of the park itself.

Steve makes an appointment with Pepper when the sketches are done, and he goes up to Stark Industries at the appointed time only to find out that there’s been an emergency at the plant in Los Angeles and Pepper has just left to get on a flight. “I’m so sorry,” Patricia tells him when he arrives. “I was just about to call you. Today has been… well, frankly, the best word I can think of is _intense_.”

“Hey, it’s no problem; I totally understand,” Steve says. “Can I just leave these with you? That way she can look at them whenever she has time and she can get back in touch with me at her convenience.”

“That sounds perfect,” Patricia says, accepting the portfolio and sliding it into one of her many desk drawers. “Thank you so much for being understanding.”

Steve smiles. “Hey, you’re a busy lady. I’m an artist; I can come and go as I please. One extra trip to Manhattan isn’t going to hurt my health, you know?”

She laughs. “Well, thank you anyway. I’ll make sure Ms. Potts gets these sketches first thing when she gets back. I know she’s been looking forward to seeing them.”

“I hope she likes them,” Steve says. “And I hope your day gets less crazy.” From there, he shows himself out.

He presents himself at Bucky’s on the following day and they go shopping. The clothes he ends up with are still his style, but much more fashionable and high end than what he’s used to. Bucky takes him only to boutiques and name brand shops, and Steve has to admit that it makes him a little nervous. He’s not used to high end shopping. He thinks, just to himself, that he feels a little bit like Julia Roberts in _Pretty Woman_ , worrying about being snubbed out of a store, but Bucky’s used to it and he knows what he wants.

The next thing Steve knows, he’s got a second wardrobe made up of comfortable skinny and straight leg jeans, various types of shirts, smart blazers, and even new shoes. Bucky pays to have almost everything delivered to his apartment, and they wander out of the last store into the afternoon with just a few bags to show for their afternoon of excess.

“That was… kind of intense,” Steve admits as they walk up Seventh Avenue.

“Not over yet,” Bucky says. “You still need a couple of suits.”

“Oh, jeez,” Steve groans. “Today?”

“Tomorrow, if you’re free,” Bucky replies. “I set up an appointment, but it can be changed.”

“No, tomorrow’s fine,” Steve says. “I just think I’m all shopped out today.”

“No worries,” Bucky says, flashing him a grin. “I can see where you’d be a little wiped. We did a lot today.”

“And in a lot of places,” Steve says. “I don’t think I’ve walked this much in ages.”

“Poor thing,” Bucky says, voice dripping with false sympathy. “Want me to carry you?”

“Jerk.”

“Punk.”

They grin at each other, and Steve, not for the first time, feels the effect of that grin somewhere in the pit of his stomach. He ignores it, pushing it to the side. This is a professional arrangement.

They hail a taxi to carry them back to Bucky’s apartment, and while Steve showers and changes into a new outfit, Bucky calls to make dinner reservations. He gets them into a fairly upscale place, so Steve makes sure to dress nicely, in black pants and a white button-up with the new boots Bucky bought him. When he comes back into the living room, Bucky nods firmly. “Good choice,” he says. “You look fantastic. I should dress up, too. We’ve got half an hour before the Lyft gets here.”

Steve nods and flops down onto the couch as Bucky heads back to his room. He pulls out his phone and texts Sharon. _Shopping day a success,_ he says. _Have so many clothes now._

_Will I get a fashion show?_ Sharon wants to know.

_Doubt it. Most will probably stay here @ Bucky’s. Have to be able to dress up if he decides to go out someplace._

_Booooo._

Chuckling, Steve checks his email and finds one from Patricia, Pepper’s assistant. _Ms. Potts has approved the sketches you dropped off yesterday,_ it says. _You’re approved to begin work as soon as your schedule allows._

_Thank you,_ he replies back. _Please let Ms. Potts know that I’ll start work right away._

He fields a couple more friend requests – one from _Brock Rumlow,_ of all people, who once slammed Steve’s head so hard into a gym locker that Steve nearly lost a tooth. _Surely you jest,_ Steve thinks, mashing the “ignore” button with something akin to glee. _Fuck you, Rumlow. And the horse you rode in on._

Then Bucky comes out of his bedroom dressed in navy blue slacks, a white button-up, and a silvery-gray vest. Steve gives a low whistle. “You look good.”

“I do, huh?” Bucky says, doing a little twirl. “I won’t embarrass you?”

“Haha, I’m pretty sure you could never,” Steve says. He gets up and stretches. “Do I look okay? Should I wear more formal pants?”

“No, you look great,” Bucky replies. “I really like those boots on you.”

“They’re really comfortable,” Steve replies. “I’m surprised I won’t have to break them in much.”

“Good,” Bucky says. “I want you to like the things I buy you.” He pauses. “That reminds me, I bought you something the other day.” He goes to a small table near the hallway door and opens the drawer, pulling out a box and bringing it to Steve. “Thought of you when I saw it.”

It’s a bracelet, silver, in link chain with two lion’s heads on either side of a ring clasp. It’s beautiful, and Steve says so, staring at it in something like awe. “Oh,” he breathes. He can’t imagine how much the bracelet must have cost, but he knows what his Bulgari watch is worth and he knows that Bucky is willing to spend his money on whatever catches his eye. Steve can’t imagine being able to spend so freely, but he’s learning to accept Bucky’s gifts with grace. “Bucky, this is gorgeous.”

Bucky grins. “You like it?”

“I love it,” Steve replies honestly. He holds it out to Bucky. “Put it on me?”

Bucky does, his fingers gently brushing over Steve’s skin as he works the clasp, and then he holds Steve’s fingertips for a moment, studying the effect on Steve’s arm. “Perfect,” he says softly.

Steve swallows hard, and then grins. “I love it,” he says again. “Where did you get it?”

“An antique store near where my parents live,” Bucky tells him. “I was in there browsing with Dad – he loves antiquing – and when I saw it, I knew you had to have it.”

Steve tilts his head. “Your dad didn’t come to brunch,” he says. “Does he not know about me?”

“Oh, he knows,” Bucky replies. “I told him basically the same thing I told Mom. But he’s trusting my judgment.”

Steve grins. “Kind of him.”

“He’s one of the few,” Bucky says, his lips twisting a little bit. “I can’t even get my sister to respect me right now.”

Steve slides his hand more fully into Bucky’s and gives Bucky a warm squeeze. “Whatever it is,” he says softly, “it’ll get better.”

“Eventually,” Bucky acknowledges. “I’m sure.”

Steve gives him a smile. He starts to say something, but Bucky’s phone beeps, and he lets go of Steve’s hand to check it. “That’s our ride,” he says. “C’mon, I’m ready for some food.”

The place they end up is Mediterranean, and Steve plows his way through tehina on pita bread and mahshi, even saving room for some baqlawa for dessert. Bucky shares the tehina with him but gets the shawerma and, for dessert, om ali.

By the time they’re done, Steve is groaning under his breath. “I’m never eating again,” he says as they roll out of the restaurant and fetch up on the sidewalk.

Bucky, who is in the same boat, laughs. That’s one of the reasons I like this place,” he says. “It might be a fancy place, upscale dining, you know? But it doesn’t have all the tiny portions and pretentiousness that some places have.”

Steve nods. “I get that,” he says.

They wander up the sidewalk a bit, away from the restaurant doors, and Bucky says, “Will you get offended if I don’t have you over tonight?”

“Not at all,” Steve replies. “I have some stuff I need to do at home anyway.”

“Okay. Because I think I kind of just want to have a quiet night and stare at the walls.”

Steve laughs. “I get that. I’m sure I’ll survive until I see you tomorrow.”

Bucky grins. “I’m sure you will.”

“What time?”

“Noon,” Bucky replies. “We’ll have lunch and then go over to the tailor’s so you can be measured.”

“Sounds good,” Steve says. “Walk me to the train station?”

Bucky does, and they part at the stairs that lead underground. Steve heads home on the train.

He wasn’t lying; he actually does need to do things at home. The place hasn’t been properly cleaned in awhile, and he needs to clear out old food from the fridge since he’s been doing so much eating out with Bucky. He thinks about that time he offered to cook for Bucky and wonders if he should bring it up again, then decides against it. If Bucky wants him to cook, Bucky can bring it up.

He putters around for some time, straightening up his art supplies and putting on a load of laundry. He pauses and takes a selfie in the full-length mirror on his closet door before stripping out of his new clothes. He sends the selfie to Sharon, then changes into a pair of pajama pants and sits down at his computer to work on a couple of fanart commissions.

_!!!!!_ Sharon sends. _You look amazing._

_Thanks,_ Steve replies. _Bucky picked out almost everything._

_Can’t wait to see some more of what he bought for you. Be careful you don’t get totally spoiled._

Steve takes a picture of the bracelet that’s now sitting on his desk and sends that to Sharon as well. _Too late._

It’s nearly midnight before he finishes working, and by then Steve’s exhausted. He sends the art to the purchasers and shuts down his computer for the night, padding into the bathroom to take care of business and brush his teeth before climbing into bed.

His phone beeps once just as he’s about to turn the light out; it’s a message from Bucky. _Good night,_ it says simply.

Steve smiles and sends the same sentiment back, and he’s asleep almost as soon as his head hits the pillow.

He’s fitted for his suits the next day; Bucky picks out two for him. One of them is a plain black suit with a gorgeous blue shirt that makes Steve’s eyes pop; the other is a gunmetal gray with silver threads that makes it shine under the lights. Both of them came off the rack, but the tailor assures both Bucky and Steve that by the time they’re fitted, they’ll look like they were made for him specifically.

From the tailor, they spend a pleasant couple of hours geocaching in the Garment District before heading back to Bucky’s, where they spend the rest of the afternoon in relative quiet, reading books. Bucky’s got a well-worn science fiction paperback, while Steve’s reading a book about systemic racism and the prison industrial complex on his Kindle. It’s very domestic, Steve realizes, and the lazy thought crosses his mind that he could get used to this.

He sits with that thought for a minute. He wonders where it came from. Then he thinks: _Well, of course I could get used to it. Lifestyles of the rich and famous. Who_ wouldn’t _want to get used to it?_ Bucky’s one of the best sugar daddies Steve’s ever had, with perhaps the exception of the one he had in college who paid all the bills and his tuition without so much as a peep in return for sex maybe twice a week. Bucky’s different: he wants companionship as well as sex. He’s maybe a little high maintenance, but Steve thinks he’s also a little short on friends, so it’s understandable.

Steve likes Bucky. He’s friendly, personable, witty, charming. In short, he’s all those things one expects that a movie star _should_ be. But there’s more to it; Bucky’s also sweet and thoughtful. His gifts, while extravagant, usually come with the tag, “I saw this and thought of you.” Who could resist that?

So yes, Steve tells himself, it’s perfectly natural that he should be thinking he could get used to this. What would possibly be easier? Get used to having a witty and charming partner with an evident heart of gold who spoils you and takes care of you? Of course. It would be easy to get lost in that.

But, Steve reminds himself firmly, he has to remember that Bucky isn’t his _partner._ He’s a _client._ And at any moment, one or the other of them could decide to sever this professional relationship and Steve would never see Bucky again, except maybe up on a movie screen.

_Well, enjoy it while you’ve got it,_ says a voice in Steve’s brain that sounds a lot like Sharon. _Just don’t get lost in it._

_Right,_ Steve thinks. _Don’t get lost in it._

He refuses to even entertain the idea that it might be too late for that.


	8. Chapter 8

On Thursday morning, Steve goes back to the tailor for a fitting; both the suits do indeed fit like they were made for him. The tailor wants to make a few adjustments to the gray one, but the black one is ready to go, so Steve takes it with him when he leaves. He calls Bucky from the Lyft on the way back home. “I got the black suit,” he says. “The gray one isn’t ready yet.”

“Okay,” Bucky says. “I’ll wear black, too, and then we’ll match.”

“Aww, we’ll be one of _those_ couples,” Steve says, laughing.

Bucky laughs as well. “Might as well be,” he says. “Maybe I’ll wear a red shirt so we’re not quite as matchy-matchy.”

“Go black-on-black,” Steve says. “It’ll make you look dangerous and mysterious.”

“I could do that,” Bucky muses. “Yeah, okay, I can do that.”

“Cool,” Steve says, grinning.

“You should come over tonight,” Bucky tells him. “That way you can pack from your clothes here, and we can leave together in the morning. It’ll save trying to find a place to meet up at the airport and everything.”

“Yeah, okay,” Steve agrees. “I’m on my way home, but I’ll come over there, what, about seven?”

“Make it six, and I’ll get dinner delivered,” Bucky says. Then he adds, “One of these days you’re going to have to follow up on your promise to cook for me.”

“I was just thinking about that the other day,” Steve says. “Once we get back from L.A., I promise I will. Okay?”

“Sounds good,” Bucky replies, humor in his voice. “See you later.”

When Steve gets home, he hangs the suit on the coat rack by the front door and checks the time. It’s only ten, so he has plenty of time to get some work done on one of Pepper’s paintings before he needs to be at Bucky’s. He changes into painting clothes, puts on some music, sets his alarm, and goes to work.

Work is Steve’s happy place. He loves making art, regardless of whether it’s original art or fanart. He just loves the act of creation, the ability to take what’s in his mind and get it out onto paper or canvas or even a digital screen. He can and does easily lose himself in what he’s doing for hours at a time, working steadily until the light is gone and he looks up to realize he’s trying to paint in the dark. It’s happened in the past. He tries not to do that on Pepper’s canvases, though; he _really_ doesn’t need to screw them up and end up with trash work. Not that he would ever present her with trash work; he just doesn’t want to have to start all over again on a fresh canvas.

The work takes Steve out of himself. He’s not sure where he goes when he’s in the zone, but it’s a calm and quiet place where his brain settles down and he focuses on nothing more than the art unspooling from his fingertips. It’s a balm to his soul, even when such a balm isn’t really needed. He loves it.

At four-thirty his alarm goes off and he stops, washing up and putting everything away before changing back into jeans and a t-shirt and grabbing his suitcase. He has a travel kit of toiletries at Bucky’s, so all he really needs is the case itself. He collects his suit in its garment bag, thinks about the subway, and calls for a Lyft instead.

He makes it to Bucky’s a little after six; dinner’s already there when he comes in the door, a plethora of Chinese take-out containers spread out on the coffee table. “Hey, sorry I’m late,” Steve says, setting his suitcase out of the way and lying his suit over the back of a chair. “Traffic was a nightmare coming in from Brooklyn.”

“No big deal,” Bucky replies. “I just ate all the egg rolls so you don’t get any.”

“What? You jerk!”

Laughing, Bucky prods the package of egg rolls – still almost full – with his chopsticks. “Come eat.”

Steve comes across the room, settling himself on the floor beside Bucky and grabbing a pair of the cheap wooden chopsticks. He picks up the container of broccoli beef and shows it to Bucky. “You gonna want any of this?”

“Nope; got it for you,” Bucky replies, scooping chicken fried rice into his mouth.

“Good,” Steve says, and starts digging into the container. “Mine, my own, my preciousssss.”

Bucky nearly chokes on his rice, manages to swallow, and starts laughing. “You nerd.”

“You like my nerdiness.”

Bucky gives him a fond smile. “Yeah, I do,” he admits. “Admittedly, not when I’m trying to chew food, but yeah.”

Steve laughs, leaning over and bumping his shoulder against Bucky’s before digging back into his food. “So tell me about this red carpet,” he says. “Will it be the same as the last one?”

“Basically. Waiting in the car until they come get us, then waiting in the staging area, then walking the carpet, getting our pictures taken, and then going inside. At least this time we get to sit down and watch a movie afterward.

“What movie is it?”

“The new _Spiderman,_ ” Bucky says. “Hope you like cheesy superhero movies.”

“I love a good explosion,” Steve replies, grinning. “Action movies are great. Especially the superhero ones. Excellent mindless entertainment.”

“Mindless?” Bucky exclaims, mock affronted. “I’ll have you know that _Captain America_ was _extremely_ cerebral.”

“Yeah, I thought the part where he blew up all those buildings full of Nazis was really thought-provoking. And when he punched the Red Skull? I got choked up; it was so emotional.”

They snigger at each other before Bucky says, “So you’ve seen it.”

“I saw the second half of it at Sharon’s,” Steve admits. “But I haven’t seen it all the way through.”

“Honestly, you’re not missing much,” Bucky says, “although the special effects at the beginning, where they make me look small and skinny, are really good. I was impressed.”

“Oh, that’s right, I forgot he starts out small,” Steve says.

“Yeah, the guy that was the body double for pre-serum Cap was about your size,” Bucky says. “It was weird, looking at myself that small.”

“I bet,” Steve replies. “As weird as it would be for me to see myself your size. What are you, six two?”

“Six feet exactly,” Bucky replies, grinning. “And yeah, it’d be weird to see you big like that.”

Steve smiles at that. “I’m pocket-sized,” he says.

“Fun-sized,” Bucky replies, waggling his eyebrows lasciviously.

Steve bursts out laughing. “Weirdo.” He shakes his head. “I actually used to be really sensitive about my size, but I’ve gotten more mellow about it as I’ve gotten older.” He shrugs. “It is what it is.”

“Yes, the wisdom of age,” Bucky says. “You’re so wise now, Elder Steve. Tell us more stories of the olden days when the world was young.”

“Whippersnapper,” Steve grumbles.

They finish their food and clean up, then Bucky takes Steve to bed and keeps him there for the rest of the night.

Steve finds that he doesn’t mind that part of his work nearly as much as he has done in the past; his past sugar daddies have all been much older men, some of whom occasionally verged on the creepy. (And in the case of Alexander Pierce, went way beyond the creepy into the unpleasant.) With Bucky, though, it’s different; Steve supposes that this is because Bucky is in his own age group, more or less, and it feels more like being with a partner than it does being with a sugar daddy.

Regardless of the reason, Steve thinks as he sinks into sleep, he likes it with Bucky.

In the morning, Steve finds himself wondering what the trip will be like. He wonders if they’ll fly on a private jet. That’s a thing celebrities and movie stars do, isn’t it?

Bucky has ordered a Lyft to take them to the airport, and on the way there, he asks Steve how much he’s flown.

“None,” Steve admits. “This’ll be my first time flying since I was five, and the only thing I remember about that flight is being stuck in one place so long I thought I’d lose my mind.”

“Oh, and we’re going first class,” Bucky says, and laughs. “It’ll ruin you for any other kind of flight.”

Steve nods. “I’ve heard there’s huge differences,” he says.

“Oh, yeah. First class is great. More room in the seats, better food, nicer air hosts, all of that.” Bucky nods.

The driver drops them off right outside the check-in door. Bucky tips in cash and they gather their luggage, heading inside. They check in, glide through security with relative ease, and then find their gate. Once they know where it is, they wander the concourse, window shopping at the expensive outlets. Bucky tries to buy Steve more clothes at the Hugo Boss outlet, but Steve complains that there’s no place to put them, since his suitcase was checked and he didn’t bring a carry-on bag. Bucky grumbles, but Steve says, “We’ll come back by when we come back; how’s that sound?” and Bucky is appeased.

They wander back toward their gate and get there just as their flight is called. They settle into their seats and wait while the rest of the flight boards, then they wait while the air hosts go through the routine safety briefing. “I’ve seen this on TV,” Steve murmurs to Bucky, “but I didn’t know they do it in real life.”

Bucky nods, waiting until it’s over before saying, “Yeah, they do that every time. The pointing and everything. It’s standardized.” Then he laughs. “You really _don’t_ remember that childhood flight.”

“Nope.”

The plane starts to shift forward then, smoothly rolling toward the runway, and Steve settles back in his seat, swallowing hard and trying not to look nervous. Bucky’s hand settles on his shoulder. “It’s okay,” he says. “It’s all right to be nervous. I still get nervous sometimes.”

Steve gives Bucky a weak smile. As the plane hits the runway and starts to pick up speed, Bucky’s hand slides down Steve’s arm and comes to rest on Steve’s hand. Grateful, Steve turns his hand under Bucky’s and laces their fingers together, giving him a squeeze. “It’s gonna be okay,” Steve mutters under his breath.

“Perfectly okay,” Bucky replies. “And hey, it’s a nonstop flight, so at least we don’t have to do this part again for a couple of days.”

Steve gives him a huff of a laugh. “There is that,” he agrees.

The plane begins its ascent. Steve closes his eyes. Bucky squeezes his hand. And as the plane finally levels out, Steve takes a deep breath. “Okay,” he says. “That wasn’t so bad.”

“Exactly,” Bucky replies. “And it’s smooth sailing from here.”

Six hours later they stumble off the plane, collect their luggage, and wobble out of the airport to catch a taxi to their hotel. “I hate flying,” Bucky grumbles as he flops down on one side of the king bed in their room. “Absolutely hate it.”

“It’s officially not my favorite thing to do, either,” Steve agrees, flopping down onto the other bed. “Do we have to do anything tonight?”

“No, thank god,” Bucky replies. “That’s why I decided we should fly in the night before. We can rest, get a nap or whatever, eat in the hotel restaurant or just get room service, and then sleep some more before tomorrow.”

“That sounds good,” Steve says. He kicks his shoes off and rolls over more fully onto the bed, grabbing a pillow and burying himself in it. “I’m definitely napping.”

“Great idea,” Bucky says, and does the same.

When they wake up, Steve stumbles to the bathroom for a shower while Bucky calls for room service. He flips the television on and finds a movie they can watch, then flops back down on the bed and waits for Steve to come out. He does, finally, in a billow of steam, with only a towel wrapped around his waist, and Bucky makes a low growl in the back of his throat. “If I wasn’t so damn hungry, I’d say forget the room service,” he says, watching as Steve drags a clean pair of underwear out of his bag and pulls them on.

Steve laughs. “If I wasn’t so damn hungry, I might let you.” He takes the towel from around his waist and uses it to rub at his wet hair. “Unfortunately for both of us, I think we’re starving.”

“We are,” Bucky agrees. “Don’t worry, though; I’ll make up for it later.”

Grinning, Steve goes back into the bathroom to comb his hair.

Bucky gets the door when the food arrives, and they sit at the little table by the window to eat and look out over L.A. “So what do you think of California so far?”

“It’s pretty, what we saw of it coming in. The city’s very different, though.”

“Yeah, it’s definitely different. A lot more spread out, for one thing.”

They talk idly over the food, chatting about this and that, until they’re finished eating. They flop down on the bed together to finish watching the movie that Bucky had up on the TV, and they fall asleep right there together.

Steve wakes in the middle of the night to find himself curled on his side with Bucky spooned right up against his back. It’s the first time that’s happened. Without even thinking about it, he shifts back more firmly into Bucky’s grip and goes back to sleep.

In the morning they order room service again and lounge around until it’s time to get ready; they both take advantage of the provided iron and ironing board to press their suits and then they get dressed. They time it well; only ten or so minutes after they finish dressing, Bucky gets a call that the car is waiting for them downstairs.

They head down in the elevator and have to pause in the lobby for Bucky to take a picture with a young fan, but then they’re out on the sidewalk and the car is there waiting for them. The driver opens the back door for them and they slide in.

They pass through Los Angeles slowly, sitting side by side in the back of the car. Bucky looks out the window with Steve and points out various landmarks as they pass by. “We’re definitely going to do the tourist thing tomorrow, right?” Steve asks him.

“Definitely,” Bucky replies. “We’ll do the Walk of Fame and the Chinese theater and everything. Promise.”

“Cool.” Steve sits back in the seat. He opens his mouth to say something else, but the words never make it out; instead, he’s interrupted by a horrific crashing noise, and the world suddenly turns itself into pure painful chaos.


	9. Chapter 9

Steve never remembers the following couple of hours in any great detail; there are flashes of things like paramedics talking to him and the sound of Bucky calling his name, but the first thing he really remembers is lying on a bed somewhere in a hospital, both of his arms propped upright, and having Bucky’s manager come into the room.

He manages to open his eyes for a moment, squinting at the suited man standing by his bed, and then closes them again. “Phil, right?”

“That’s right,” Phil says. “Bucky’s manager. I’m glad you know who I am.”

“Is Bucky okay?”

“Bucky will be fine,” Phil hedges, but Steve’s too out of it to really notice.

“What about the driver, is he okay?”

“The driver is fine. He walked away without a scratch.”

“Oh, good.” Steve relaxes a little bit. “I think they have me on some painkillers.”

“They do,” Phil says. “Can you think anyway?”

“Mostly,” Steve acknowledges. “What do you need?”

“Who can we call for you? Do you have an emergency contact in your phone?”

“I don’t know anybody in Los Angeles,” Steve frets. “Everyone’s in New York.”

“Don’t worry,” Phil soothes. “We can bring someone here. Who should we call?”

“Sharon,” Steve says. “Sharon Carter.”

“What’s your phone code?” Phil asks.

“Uh.” Steve has to pause and think. “6287.”

Phil nods, and a moment later Steve hears him speaking softly. “Hello, is this Sharon Carter? Yes, my name is Phil Coulson, I’m Bucky Barnes’s manager. We’re in Los Angeles with Steve, and there’s been an accident. Steve’s all right, but of course he’s all alone here. He gave me your name as his emergency contact. If I get you a ticket, can you come?”

Steve floats.

When he comes back to, Phil is saying, “Sharon is going to be here in just a few hours. We have her a ticket on the first flight out.”

“Okay,” Steve says. Then a thought occurs to him. “They’ll need my medical records. I have a heart condition.”

“I’ll get the nurse; she’ll need all that information.”

A moment later, there’s a nurse at Steve’s side, introducing himself as Tyrone. Steve cracks his eyes open enough to make eye contact with the young Black man, and then closes them again. “Hi. I’ve got a heart condition.”

“So I hear,” the nurse says. “What doctors should we be contacting?”

“Dr. Hagerty at New York-Presbyterian,” Steve replies. “That’s my cardiologist. He’s got records on all my conditions.”

“Perfect,” the nurse says. “We’ll get in touch with Dr. Hagerty right away. Is there anything else we need to know?”

Steve thinks about it for a minute. Then he says, “I’m cold. Can I have another blanket?”

Tyrone laughs. “I’ll get you one, sure thing.”

Phil goes to check on Bucky; Steve makes him promise to come back with a status update. Phil agrees to do so, and then he’s gone. Steve sleeps.

When he wakes up, there are nurses all around him. “Hi,” Tyrone says when Steve opens his eyes briefly. “Glad you’re back with us. We’ve got to set your wrist.”

“Oh no,” Steve groans. “It’s broken?”

“It’s broken,” Tyrone confirms. “But it’ll be fine. Here’s the thing, though – it’s broken really badly, so it’s gonna hurt like the dickens for us to set it and there’s not enough painkiller in the world for it to blank that out. So we’re gonna give you a shot of ketamine, and then you just won’t remember it.”

“Isn’t that a horse tranquilizer?” Steve asks, but nobody answers him; a moment later, he feels his head go hazy, and then…

Everything is plaid. Not to say that the furniture and the people have taken up a tartan complexion; no, the whole universe is nothing but a plaid ocean, and Steve is a mere drop within that ocean. He is one with the plaid and the plaid is him. He realizes suddenly that he is separate from the plaid; he lifts himself up out of the plaid ocean to look around. He sees nothing but more plaid – the entire universe in brilliant white, with a thin line of bright red, a thin line of dark red, and a thin line of green all intersecting and making up the entirety of existence.

_Oh,_ he thinks. _That was pointless._ And he falls back into the ocean, relaxing into the plaid.

He opens his eyes; Phil is there. “They’re going to do surgery on your arm,” he says. “Do you have a living will or advanced directive?”

“Dr. Hagerty has it,” Steve says. “How’s Bucky?”

“He’s out of surgery,” Phil replies. “His left arm is injured, but otherwise he’s fine. You actually took the brunt of the impact.”

“What happened?”

“A car ran a red light and slammed into the side of the limo,” Phil tells him. “You have two broken wrists and some broken ribs and a pretty bad concussion. Bucky’s got damage to his left shoulder and arm. He’d have been fine if he’d been wearing his seat belt.”

Steve feels his face crumple. “It’s my fault,” he whispers. “He was showing me things out the window.”

“It’s not your fault,” Phil replies. “He knew better.”

Steve shakes his head a little bit, then sighs. “At least nobody died.” Then he opens his eyes, staring up at Phil. “Nobody died, right?”

“Nobody died,” Phil confirms. “The other driver was injured pretty badly but he’s going to recover.”

Steve relaxes into the bed, closing his eyes again. “Okay. That’s good.” Then he says, “Can I have some water?”

Phil gets water for him, bringing the straw to his lips. “Here you go.”

“Thank you.” Steve drinks; it’s the best thing he’s ever had. “You said Sharon is coming?”

“Yes. She should be here by the time you get out of surgery.”

Suddenly a terrible fear washes over Steve. He tries to reach out, but his arms are immobilized. “Phil,” he says, his voice a little weak, “am I still going to be able to paint?”

There’s a long silence before Phil says, “I don’t know.”

That’s when Steve cries.

After a while, he dozes.

He’s awakened when they come to take him for surgery. He’s brought to a staging area, where they ask him all manner of questions, including whether or not he’s wearing contact lenses. “Yes,” he tells them, and they try to take the lenses out. Only the nurse says, “There aren’t any contact lenses here.”

“I swear I’m wearing contacts,” Steve says.

“Look up at the clock,” the nurse tells him. “What time is it?”

Steve looks up at the clock. He can’t read it. “That’s weird,” he says. “I had them when I left the hotel.”

She laughs softly. “The impact may have knocked them out of your eyes. That happens.”

“Wild,” Steve says, settling back on the bed.

A woman enters the room, and she introduces herself as Dr. Wiseman. “I’m going to do the surgery on your wrists,” she says. “It’ll be fairly simple; I’m going to be putting stabilizing plates in both wrists to make sure they stay still and get healed as best they can.”

“Dr. Wiseman,” Steve says softly, “am I going to be able to paint after this?”

“Yes,” the doctor says firmly. “It’s going to take a little time and some physical therapy, but I expect you to get full function in both wrists again.”

Steve blows out a long, slow breath. “Thank you,” he says softly.

The doctor pats his shoulder and leaves the room; a moment later, a couple of orderlies come and move Steve into the operating room.

When he wakes up in the recovery ward after the surgery, his arms are heavily bandaged and propped up on pillows, his mouth tastes like death, and Sharon is there.

She can’t hug him, though he can see the desperate need to in her eyes, and he gives her a weak smile. “Hey.”

“Hey, asshole,” she says softly. Her hand comes to rest on his knee and she gives him a gentle squeeze. “How are you feeling?”

“Like I got hit by a car,” Steve admits. “Thanks for coming.”

“Don’t,” she says. “Of course I came. You’re like my little brother.”

Steve laughs softly. “Have you met Phil?”

“Yeah, we met while you were in surgery. Nice guy. Very concerned.”

“Yeah, he’s all right,” Steve says. “I wasn’t sure at first, but I’m convinced.”

“You’re all over the papers,” Sharon says. “Drama queen.”

“You know me; I like the attention.” Steve smiles slightly. “What are they saying?”

“They’re just reporting the accident and that you and Bucky are both in the hospital.”

Steve nods. “At least they can’t blame this on Bucky and make more rumors; he wasn’t driving and it wasn’t our fault.”

Sharon hums. “Good point.”

Steve sighs. “I wish I could see him.”

“He’s all right,” she assures him.

“I know; Phil told me. Still, I’d like to see him.”

“Maybe once they get you into a room and everything,” she says. “They’re going to want to get you up and walking around, so you can maybe walk to his room.”

“That’d be nice,” Steve says. “I know everyone says he’s okay but I’d like to see for myself, you know?”

“If it helps, Phil says he’s been asking about you, too.”

“Have you got my phone?”

She offers it to him.

He takes it clumsily in his left hand, then pokes at the screen with the fingers of his immobilized right hand. _I’m awake after surgery,_ he types. _I hope you have your phone and you get this. I’m worried about you. Everyone says you are fine but I want to come and see you as soon as they let me._ He sends the text to Bucky, then sets the phone down on his stomach.

“How was your flight?” he asks Sharon, and they spend the next few minutes talking about inconsequential things. The flight was good, Sam is worried sick about him, work is good, and so on.

Then Steve’s phone beeps. He picks it up. _Have shoulder injury, left arm,_ the reply reads. _Not as bad as you I guess. I think I slammed into the window on the other side. Could have been worse; could have broken my neck. Teach me to wear a seat belt._

_Glad you are not hurt worse,_ Steve replies. _Will be to see you asap._

_Not if I see you first._

Steve smiles, relaying the conversation to Sharon, who smiles back. “He seems like a decent guy,” she admits.

“He is,” Steve says. “I like him a lot.”

Sharon blinks at him. Her eyes flick around the room, and she presses her lips together, whatever she wanted to say going unsaid in the lack of privacy. Whatever it is, it’ll have to wait.

There’s a soft chime from the overhead speaker just then; a smooth male voice asks for everyone’s attention and announces the end of visiting hours. Sharon shakes her head. “You need to rest,” she says. “Phil got me a hotel room; I’m going to go there and get a shower and some sleep. I’ll be back in the morning, okay?”

Steve nods. “Go, sleep,” he says. “You’ve had a hell of a busy day.”

“So have you,” she replies, laughing. She gets up, then leans over and drops a kiss on his forehead. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

Steve watches her leave, and then sinks into sleep.

Steve spends the next day in and out of sleep; every time he wakes, though, Sharon is there. A couple of times, Phil is there, too, and Steve gets updates on Bucky (okay, okay, he’s okay). By the second day post-surgery, Steve’s awake and ready to get out of bed. He asks the ward nurse if he can visit Bucky. She checks with Phil, who approves the visit, and Steve’s helped up and out of bed. They give him a second gown to cover his backside and a pair of socks with grippy puffs on the bottom, and he walks with Sharon and an orderly down a hall and around a corner to a private room with no name on the door.

The orderly taps on the door and Phil answers it, smiling at Steve and stepping back. “Come in,” he says. “I’ll let you two have some time alone.”

Phil steps out of the room and Steve shuffles in to find Bucky sitting up in the bed, watching television. His left arm is in a sling. Steve smiles at him. “You know that stuff’ll rot your brain.”

“I look forward to it,” Bucky replies, grinning at him. “You’re a sight for sore eyes. Come sit down.” As Steve shuffles in and takes a seat in the recliner, which has been pulled around to face the bed, Bucky continues. “You have good timing; I just got off the phone with my mom.”

“She didn’t fly out?”

“I didn’t let her. Didn’t want her to see me all banged up. I told her I’m fine, and Phil’s got me covered here. And you. She asked about you. Said she’s glad you’re going to be all right.”

“That was nice of her,” Steve says. “So how are you feeling?”

Bucky shrugs his right shoulder, gesturing to his left arm. “I, uh. Almost lost the arm.”

Steve sits up in shock, then groans, wrapping his arm around his ribs. “Ow, ow. How the – are you – is it okay?”

“It’s fine. They were able to reattach it. I’ll have a lot of physical therapy ahead of me, but they think I’ll get most of the use back.” He eyeballs Steve’s bandaged arms. “What about you, though?”

“Oh, the surgeon says I should get it all back after therapy,” Steve says, waving his left arm slightly. “Says I won’t have any problems painting or whatever.”

“Good, good,” Bucky says. Then he settles back against his pillow with a heavy sigh. “God, I’m glad you’re okay.”

“I’m glad _you’re_ okay,” Steve replies. Then he smiles. “Okay, so we’re both glad we’re both okay, and we’re both okay and that’s what’s important.”

Bucky laughs. “Right,” he agrees. “What you said.”

They talk quietly for a little while until Bucky starts to visibly flag, and Steve struggles up from the chair. “You should sleep,” he says. “I should, too.”

Bucky nods. “If they’ll let me out of bed, I’ll come see you tomorrow.”

Steve nods. “Sounds good.” He shuffles to the door and opens it; Phil and Sharon and the orderly are sitting there in the hallway waiting for him, chatting. The orderly looks him over. “You need to be back in bed,” he says. “Come on. Can you make it, or do I need to get a wheelchair for you?”

“I think I can make it,” Steve replies.

Phil clasps Steve on the shoulder. “I’m glad you’re doing well,” he says before disappearing back into Bucky’s room. Then Steve, smiling slightly, turns and heads down the hall back toward his own room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Much of Steve's experience in this chapter mirrors my own from a car accident some years ago in which I broke both wrists. Don't drive distracted, kids.


	10. Chapter 10

They talk about sending Steve to a rehab facility until he can use his arms again, but Steve puts his foot down. “Absolutely not,” he says. “I want to go home.”

The social worker who comes with the occupational therapist gives him the hairy eyeball. “And how exactly do you plan to clean yourself up after you go to the bathroom?”

Steve opens and closes his mouth for a second, considering this.

The OT makes a suggestion. “They make adaptive devices for things like this,” she says. “Things that will help you when you don’t have help.”

“We’ll get him help,” Phil says from the doorway. “Sorry to interrupt.”

“No, it’s fine, come in,” Steve says. “They want to send me to rehab but I don’t want to go.”

“We’re getting a suite for you and Bucky,” Phil says. “Along with a private duty nurse. If you give your insurance company permission to talk to me, I can help organize things with them to get an occupational therapist in for you and whatever else you might need while you recuperate.”

“In a hotel suite in Los Angeles?” Steve says, feeling a little overwhelmed. “I kind of wanted to see if I could go home.”

“You can’t possibly fly yet,” the OT says. “Not with your ribs like they are. Give it a week at least.”

Steve sighs. “All right,” he says. He looks over at Phil. “All my insurance stuff is in my bag back at the hotel.”

“Excellent; we’ll take care of all of it once we have the two of you settled.”

Steve nods. Then he turns to the social worker and the OT. “Sound okay to you two?”

They both nod, and Steve looks over at Phil. “When are we getting out of here?”

It turns out that Phil has already collected all of Steve and Bucky’s things from the hotel; he brings Steve’s suitcase and a nurse helps Steve get dressed, then takes him out the front doors of the hospital to meet Bucky and Phil at the pick-up and drop-off area.

When they slide into the back of the car, Bucky helps Steve with his seat belt before putting on his own. Then he huffs softly. “Betcha I never go without a seat belt again.”

“Bet not,” Steve agrees. He leans over a little bit and rests his head on Bucky’s shoulder. “Thanks for all this,” he says. “The suite and the nurse and all. I, uh. I can’t really pay you back, but…”

“You don’t need to pay me back,” Bucky says. “My health insurance is covering most of it, and Phil’s going to find out what your insurance will cover, and for the rest of it…” he shrugs. “I mean… Steve, I’m worth literal millions. When I say that I have more money than I know what to do with, I mean it. This is a drop in the bucket.”

Steve nods. “Still, it’s… Well. Just. Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.”

The new hotel is nice; it’s not a five star place, but it’s got plenty of amenities, a nice restaurant, and 24/7 room service. The suite is very comfortable, two bedrooms with an attached sitting room and a kitchenette, and it is two floors up from the room where Sharon is staying.

The bellhop brings their things up to the room and Phil handles the tip; both Steve and Bucky make a beeline for the couch and settle down with twin sighs.

Phil says, “If you’re going to sleep, you should go to bed.”

Steve fumbles for the television remote. “I don’t want to sleep yet. I just want to sit here and be in pain.”

Bucky rears back. “You’re in pain? Where? What’s wrong?”

“It’s just my ribs,” Steve replies.

“Do you need one of your pain pills?”

“No,” Steve replies. “I don’t want them.” He looks up at Phil. “Any chance of some Tylenol?”

“I can have some brought,” he says. “There’s a good concierge here, so whatever you need, you can call down for it and they’ll bring it to you. I expect the nurse within a couple of hours; hopefully you won’t need the bathroom before then.”

Steve laughs. “No, Phil, you won’t need to wipe me.”

Phil dramatically sighs and wipes at his forehead. Bucky bursts out laughing. “Get out of here, Phil,” he says. “Go find me a part I can play with only one working arm.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” Phil says dryly and takes his leave.

Not long after, Sharon comes by. Steve introduces her to Bucky and they sit, chatting quietly, for about an hour before Sharon says, “Steve, now that you’re out of the hospital…”

“You need to get back to New York,” Steve finishes. “I know. I’ll get you a ticket.”

“ _I’ll_ get you a ticket,” Bucky interrupts, reaching for his phone. “You want to leave in the morning?”

“Please,” Sharon says. “I need to get back to work.”

Bucky’s slow, his phone braced against his body with his bad hand while he uses his good hand to tap away at the screen, but in a few minutes he has a seat booked for Sharon on a nine a.m. flight out of LAX. She thanks him sincerely and, when she takes her leave, after hugging Steve carefully she turns and hugs Bucky as well, surprising all three of them. Then she grins at him. “You take care of my Steve.”

“I will,” Bucky says softly.

Sharon goes.

Steve and Bucky settle back onto the couch again and Steve flips the channels idly until it becomes clear that there’s nothing on to watch. Then he sighs. “Should we just call it and go to bed?”

“The nurse is coming,” Bucky points out.

“Oh, right,” Steve says. He starts to say something else, but there’s a businesslike rap at the door, and Bucky struggles to his feet.

“Bet that’s her now,” Bucky says, going to the door.

Sure enough, it is, but it’s not a her; this nurse is a tall and strapping fellow called Kevin who’s carrying a backpack and wearing a scrub top and blue jeans. “Hey,” Kevin says in a thick Southern accent, stepping into the room. “I hear there’s a couple of broken folks in here who need a little help.”

Steve grins. He likes this guy already.

Kevin, it turns out, has been in touch with the occupational therapist. He brought, among other things, a thing called a Comfort Wipe, which is a stick that Steve can wrap in toilet paper and use with his left hand to clean up after himself in the bathroom, so he’s able to instantly reclaim some dignity. “Thank god I still have a grip in my left hand,” he says to Kevin, coming out of the bathroom. “If I didn’t, I’d be up shit creek.”

“Literally,” Kevin agrees from the kitchenette where he’s stocking the mini fridge with protein shakes and snacks. “There; now we won’t have to depend on the minibar or the concierge.”

“Were you a Boy Scout?” Steve asks, “because you sure are prepared.”

“Naw,” Kevin says. “4-H and FFA.”

“FFA?” Bucky asks.

“Future Farmers of America,” Kevin explains. “I’m from a little cow town in Arkansas. Got bit by the acting bug and moved out here when I was 17, but I figured out right quick showbiz wasn’t for me, so I got my nursing degree instead.”

“It’s not for everybody,” Bucky agrees. “Some days, I think maybe it’s not for _me._ ”

Kevin laughs softly. “You’ll do all right either way,” he says. “Now, unless you can think of anything you need right this second, I’m gonna get out of y’all’s way. Phil said to use the second bedroom so I’ll be right here if you need me, and the day nurse comes in at six.”

“Sounds perfect,” Bucky says, and Steve nods in agreement. “I think we’re gonna take a nap.”

“Sounds good,” Kevin says. “Shout if you need me.”

“Will do,” Steve says, nodding. He shuffles toward the bedroom, Bucky right behind him.

They clamber into bed together and Steve sighs as he melts into the mattress. “I think I just became one with this bed,” he says. “I’m having a transcendental experience.”

Bucky laughs. “You’re just glad you can wipe your own ass again.”

“You have no idea,” Steve replies. “I had no modesty left. You got lucky; at least you still have one working arm.”

“This is true,” Bucky agrees. “And one day, I’ll have two working arms. I really am lucky.”

Steve rolls over carefully and rests his head on Bucky’s right shoulder. “Yeah,” he says softly. “We both are.”

“Go to sleep,” Bucky says, his voice low and gentle. “We’ll be okay.”

Steve wakes up the next morning to the sound of a knock on the main suite door; the door opens and he hears Kevin’s voice speaking to a woman. “Day nurse is here,” he slurs at Bucky.

“Mmm,” Bucky replies. “So I hear.”

Steve stretches carefully, then rolls out of bed. “Gotta pee.”

“Thanks for sharing.”

When he comes out of the bathroom, Bucky has gone back to sleep, but Steve is wide awake. He finds a pair of pajama pants and a t-shirt and manages to wrestle himself into them, then he shuffles out into the main room of the suite.

A woman is standing in the kitchenette, poking at the coffee machine. “Good morning!” she says when she sees him. “I’m Jessica, the day nurse.”

“I’m Steve,” says Steve. “Nice to meet you.” He looks over at the machine. “Making coffee?” he asks plaintively.

Jessica smiles. “Yes. How do you take yours?”

“Cream and sugar,” Steve replies. Jessica starts the machine and then digs around until she finds the cream and sugar, and within just a few minutes they each have a cup and are sitting together in the main room, Steve on the couch and Jessica in the armchair. They chat easily about ordinary things until Bucky comes stumbling out of the bedroom in a half-undone pair of pants and a t-shirt.

“Help, please?” Bucky says to Jessica, and she smiles, coming over to fasten his pants for him.

“There you go,” she says. “Coffee?”

“Yes, please,” he says. “Black.”

She brings him a cup of coffee and he joins Steve on the couch. Steve starts to lean against him, realizes that’s Bucky’s left side, and straightens up again. “Oops.”

“Yeah, please don’t,” Bucky replies, grinning. “I don’t feel like crying today.”

“Have you both had your pain meds?” Jessica asks.

“No,” they say in unison. Steve adds, “I don’t want them.”

“I don’t either,” Bucky says. “It’s not that bad; Tylenol will do.”

Jessica looks dubious, but says nothing; instead, she goes to the kitchen and brings the bottle of Tylenol back, giving each of them three. They all chat for a little longer, then Bucky calls and orders breakfast from room service and Jessica heads into the second bedroom to give them their privacy.

“You’re all dressed,” Steve says once she’s gone.

“Yeah, I felt like I didn’t want to schlub around today,” Bucky replies. “Too long in a hospital gown.”

“I feel you,” Steve agrees. “I might get dressed later, but it was just easier to pull these on.”

“No judgment here,” Bucky replies. “But if you need help…”

“I’ll call Jessica,” Steve finishes the sentence, grinning.

Bucky sticks his tongue out at Steve. “Punk.”

“Jerk,” Steve replies, laughing.

Room service comes and they watch a movie while they eat. Phil comes by to check on them, and while he’s there, Steve puts him on the phone with his own insurance company to work out what they will and won’t pay for. Once that’s handled, the rest of the day is spent on the couch, ordering room service and occasionally chatting with Jessica when she pokes her head out to check on them. Kevin comes back at six, and by nine, Steve and Bucky are back in bed.

This becomes their routine for the next week. On the sixth day, they both have follow up appointments at the hospital, and their doctors clear them for air travel. Bucky immediately has Phil get on the line and get them tickets home. They’re back in New York two days later, and they part ways at the airport, each of them going to his own home.

Lying in bed that night, though, Steve finds himself feeling unaccountably bereft. He keeps reaching for Bucky, but Bucky is not there. And he finds himself wishing that Bucky was there, needing that closeness and finding it absent.

He picks up the phone at almost eleven and calls Sharon.

“Steve? Is everything okay?”

“Sharon,” he says, “I think I’ve fucked up.”

“You’ve fallen for him, haven’t you?” Sharon says softly.

“Yeah, I think so,” Steve says, feeling small and forlorn.

“I thought so, in the hospital,” Sharon confirms. “He was all you could think about. I’m sure you don’t remember it, but every time you came to consciousness, he was always the first thing you asked about.”

Steve groans, flopping back into his pillows. “What am I gonna do?”

“What _can_ you do?” she asks. “I mean, the options are limited.”

“Right,” Steve says. “I can break it off, or I can keep going as it is.”

She’s quiet for a moment before she says, “ _Or_ you could tell him how you feel and see what he says.”

“I can’t do that!” Steve is aghast. “I can’t _tell_ him!”

“Why not?”

“I – because I – I just can’t, that’s all.”

“That’s stupid,” Sharon replies. “There’s no reason you can’t.”

“Except that he doesn’t feel that way about me,” Steve replies.

Sharon snorts. “According to Phil, every time Bucky came to consciousness, all he asked about was _you,_ so you might actually be wrong about that.”

“I’m not wrong,” Steve says, and his voice is firm now. “He doesn’t feel that way about me. I’m his sugar baby, that’s all. And he was worried about me, sure, but that doesn’t mean anything.”

“Oh, okay,” Sharon says, lightly sarcastic. “It means something when _you_ do it, but not when _he_ does it? Is that how this works?”

“I…” Steve trails off.

“Yeah,” Sharon says softly. “You need to talk to him.”

“Yeah, okay,” Steve agrees. “I’ll… I’ll figure it out.” He sighs heavily. “Thanks, Sharon.”

“You’re welcome. Go get some sleep.”

Steve hangs up, but sleep is a long time coming.


	11. Chapter 11

The next morning, Steve calls Pepper Potts’s office first thing. Patricia answers the phone and when he identifies himself, she says, “Oh, Steve, thank goodness! We heard about your accident. Are you all right?”

“As well as can be expected,” Steve replies. “That’s actually what I’m calling about. I need to let Pepper know that her paintings are going to be delayed; both my wrists are broken and I can’t paint right now.”

“Hold on just a moment; I think she’s free to talk to you for a minute.” Patricia puts him on hold; a moment later, Pepper picks up.

“Steve!” Pepper exclaims. “How are you?” He repeats what he told Patricia, and when Pepper speaks again, her voice is chiding. “Steve, of course you can’t paint right now. You have two broken wrists! I would never expect you to try and paint like that.”

Steve gives her a hollow laugh. “I almost want to, just to see if I can, but I don’t have any grip strength in my right hand right now to try and squeeze paint tubes or even hold a brush properly. I’ve been reduced to shoveling food into my mouth like a toddler.”

Pepper laughs softly at the image. “Steve,” she says, “I don’t want you to worry about a thing. The paintings will be done when they’re done.” She pauses, then says, “How is Bucky?”

“He’s doing better than I expected,” Steve says. “He almost lost his arm, but they were able to save it.”

“Oh, I’m so glad,” Pepper says softly.

“Yeah, it could have been a lot worse.” Steve sighs. “Well, I won’t take up any more of your time; I know you’re busy.”

“I’m never too busy for you, Steve,” Pepper says. “You focus on getting better; I can wait for my paintings.”

It’s about a week before Steve sees Bucky again; they meet up for lunch after Bucky’s first physical therapy appointment. “How was it?” Steve asks as he awkwardly uses his left hand to scoop up rice on his fork.

“Could’ve been worse,” Bucky says. “They’ve just got me working on my grip right now; it’s way too early to do anything like moving my shoulder.”

Steve nods. “I’ve got another follow up tomorrow with an ortho surgeon at New York-Pres,” he says. “They’re going to take the stitches out and do X-rays and stuff.”

“Good,” Bucky says. “Let me know how it goes?”

“Of course,” Steve replies. “I’ll call you when I’m out.”

Bucky nods. “Hey, you wanna come over after lunch and watch a movie?”

“Sure,” Steve says. “What are we watching?”

“Oh, I dunno,” Bucky says. “ _Lord of the Rings_?”

“Theatrical edition?”

“Extended, of course,” Bucky replies. “What do you take me for?”

Steve laughs. “I’m down,” he says.

They decide to walk back to Bucky’s house and they get papped several times; only one of them approaches to ask any questions, and Steve lets Bucky handle it. “We’re doing all right, thanks,” Bucky tells the photographer, who was actually very polite in his inquiry. “We’ve both got a lot of physical therapy and hard work ahead of us, but we’re going to be just fine.”

“What about the rumors that you won’t be able to act any more?” the pap asks.

Bucky smirks. “You think I’m gonna let a little thing like this stop me? Don’t kid yourself. I might be down for a little bit, but I’ll be back.”

“That’s good to hear,” the man says. “Can I take a proper picture of the two of you?”

Bucky glances at Steve, who shrugs. They stand side by side and Bucky slings his right arm around Steve’s shoulders. Steve carefully wraps his left arm behind Bucky’s waist. The pap takes a few pictures, then smiles. “Thanks,” he says.

“No problem,” Bucky replies, and they head back up the street.

The next day, Steve has his appointment with the orthopedic surgeon. After having his X-rays done and his stitches taken out, he’s immobilized: his left wrist gets a brace, and his right wrist, which has a pin in it, gets a cast. It’s so much better than the huge mess of half-cast, fluff, and Ace bandage, though, that Steve is tickled pink. When he leaves the surgeon’s office, he calls Bucky.

“Hey, I’m out of all the bandages!”

“Oh, good!” Bucky says. “How are the X-rays looking?”

“My left arm is fine, healing as normal. He’s not sure about the right one; I might have to have another surgery on it.”

“Oh, no.”

“He’s not sure, though; it might take. It just depends. We’ll have to wait and see.” Steve shrugs a little bit, even though Bucky can’t see him. “Are we hanging out today?”

“If you want to; we could finish watching _Lord of the Rings._ ”

“Yeah, that sounds good,” Steve says. “Tell you what: I’ll pick up something to eat on the way. Anything you want in particular?”

“Surprise me,” Bucky replies, and Steve laughs.

“Will do,” Steve says. “See you in a bit.”

He hails a taxi, stopping for two large pizzas on the way, and is at Bucky’s house within an hour. They devour the pizza while watching _The Two Towers,_ and then they have popcorn and beer while watching _Return of the King._ By the time the last movie is over, it’s quite late and Steve is yawning his head off.

“Stay tonight,” Bucky says softly. “Please?”

Steve looks at him warily. “Bucky… my ribs are…”

“My shoulder is,” Bucky replies. “I’m not asking for sex. I just… I got used to sleeping with you in L.A. and I… I like it, is all.”

Steve swallows hard. “Yeah,” he says, against his better judgment. “Okay.”

The romantic part of him wants to remember what Sharon said about Bucky possibly having feelings for him; the more pragmatic part of him demands that he remember that what he and Bucky have is a _business arrangement._ He can’t afford to get attached.

Never mind that it’s too late for that.

In the morning they go for breakfast and then part ways; Bucky has to go see Phil; Steve needs to be painting or drawing but that’s obviously not going to be happening any time soon. He _does_ need to get in touch with his commissions and his Patreon – but how the hell is he going to do that without giving himself away?

He’ll lie, that’s what he’ll do.

He goes home, thinks about it for a long time, and then puts a post on his Tumblr stating that he’s broken his hand. _Shut it in a car door,_ he writes, wincing at the mental image. _Won’t be drawing for awhile. If you have a commission, it’s going to be awhile before I’m able to complete it. Please let me know if you want to cancel it._

On his Patreon, he writes a similar message, letting his subscribers know that it’s going to be awhile before he’s able to draw again. _I still have some stuff I plan to share with you that you haven’t seen before,_ he writes. _But_ _I’m going to suspend subscriptions from my end so nobody gets charged for watching me draw or getting bonuses when I’m not doing either thing_ _._

Once that’s done, he considers getting his tablet out and trying to draw anyway, but he decides against it almost immediately. He’s wearing a fiberglass cast; it’ll do nothing but scratch the tablet’s surface and ruin the damn thing. Instead, he gets a pencil and his sketchbook. He clambers into the window seat in the living room, looking out over Brooklyn, and starts trying to draw the building across the street.

It doesn’t go well.

After several attempts, growing more and more frustrated, he finally quits, setting pencil and book aside and deciding to go for froyo. What the hell, right?

There’s paparazzi on the street when he comes out of his apartment. “Hi,” says one of them, coming right up to him just as the one had the day before. “Steve Rogers, right?”

“No comment,” Steve says immediately.

“Okay, but you _are_ Steve Rogers.”

“Did you hear me? I said no comment.” He turns and walks away.

“Hey, Steve,” the photographer calls. “Is it true you and Bucky are breaking up?”

Steve keeps walking, but he raises his left hand and gives the guy the middle finger over his shoulder. Of course, that’s the photo that ends up on TMZ that evening.

Bucky calls Steve, wheezing with laughter. “You made TMZ all by yourself! I’m so proud!”

“He what?” Steve asks. “What did I do?”

“You flipped off that pap and he took a picture of it and sold you to TMZ.”

“Aw, hell.” Steve sighs. “That’s _great_ for your image. I’m sorry.”

“No, it _is_ great!” Bucky exclaims. “Now they know you won’t take their shit.”

“It won’t reflect badly on you?”

“Steve,” Bucky says, “if the worst thing you ever do is flip off a photographer, I think we’re doing all right.”

Steve laughs. “Okay, you’ve got a point.”

“How was the rest of your day?” Bucky asks.

Steve sighs, leaning back on the couch. “Not great,” he admits. “I tried drawing but I can’t get the right range of motion with no wrist function, even with moving the sketchbook to the right angles. So I had to contact all my commissions and my Patreon and tell them I won’t be able to draw for them right now.”

“Ouch,” Bucky says softly. “What did you tell them?”

“That I broke my hand slamming it in a car door,” Steve says. “I feel bad for lying but I couldn’t very well tell the truth; they’d connect me to, well, _me_ immediately.”

“Yeah, that’s a good point,” Bucky says. “Good thinking.”

Steve nods, getting up and starting to pace. “Yeah. So I tried drawing; it didn’t work. So I decided to go get froyo, and that’s when the pap got me. Kind of pissed me off; he clearly wanted to ask a bunch of questions and wouldn’t take _no comment_ for an answer.”

“Yeah, they’re bad about that.”

Steve makes a face at his reflection in the window. “I guess it takes a special kind of person to do that job. I sure couldn’t do it.”

“I guess,” Bucky replies. “Hey, listen, I’ve got PT tomorrow morning but I thought maybe we could do something afterward. I’m bored.”

Steve laughs. “Buck, I think you’re always bored.”

“I _am_ bored a lot,” Bucky admits. “I mean, I quit the drugs, what the hell am I supposed to do to fill all my time now?”

Steve doesn’t know how to take that, and he scrambles for something to say. Before he has a chance, though, Bucky blows out a breath of air. “Shit,” he says. “I wasn’t going to tell you about that.”

“No, I guess not,” Steve says softly.

Bucky blows out another breath. “So… I guess I gotta talk about it now.”

“You don’t have to,” Steve replies. “But it seems like maybe you want to?”

“I…” Bucky trails off for a minute before finally saying, “I made some bad decisions after _Normandy._ ”

Steve makes an encouraging noise, closing the blinds against the gathering dusk outside and going into the kitchen to make a cup of coffee.

“I, uh.” Bucky clears his throat. “It was the first time in my life that I’d had that kind of money – you know how that movie blew up, it was ridiculous. I went from cup noodles to rolling in dough in a matter of just a few weeks. The residuals are still coming in, Steve, and I haven’t touched the principal in three years.”

Steve gives a low whistle. “I knew it made a bunch of money, but I never looked up how much you made. I know some people care about that kind of stuff, but it never felt like it was any of my business.”

“Let’s just say _a lot_ and leave it there,” Bucky says. “But anyway, I made some bad decisions. Got in with a bad crowd, as my mother puts it. And the rumors about rehab are true. I came close to overdosing one night; I didn’t go to the hospital with it, but maybe I should have. I checked myself into rehab the next day and I stayed there until I was sure I had a handle on it.”

“Do you go to meetings now?” Steve asks.

“Sometimes,” Bucky admits. “There’s a group that meets a few times a month here in New York that’s specifically for people like me – celebrities, I mean, who can’t afford to let word get out about their _little problem._ ”

Steve nods, doctoring his coffee. “You’re good now, right?”

“I’m good now,” Bucky says. “I haven’t touched drugs in over a year and I only drink occasionally – well, you know that; you’ve been with me every time I’ve had a drink since we started hanging out.”

“I think I’ve seen you have a beer like three times,” Steve points out. “And we’ve been hanging out for _weeks._ Months, actually.”

“Exactly,” Bucky says. “So I very seldom drink any more and like I said, I haven’t touched drugs. I don’t even smoke weed any more and I used to do that pretty regularly.”

Steve’s silent for a minute before he says, “You know, I’m glad you didn’t overdose.”

“Me, too,” Bucky agrees, his voice soft. “If I had, we’d never have met.”

Steve swallows hard. There’s something in Bucky’s voice that makes him… wonder. But he doesn’t dare bring it up, not on the telephone. Maybe he’ll get brave the next time they’re together face to face.

Maybe not. Who knows?

He blows out a breath. “So I guess you quit hanging out with people who do drugs.”

“Yep,” Bucky replies. “But I feel like you probably knew all this anyway.”

“I had a feeling,” Steve admits. “After all the rumors and everything, and I couldn’t figure out why you didn’t seem to have any friends.”

“I have a couple,” Bucky says. “My best friend – I haven’t told you about her. Natasha Romanoff. She’s a dancer – ballet, modern dance, that kind of thing.” He pauses. “You knew that already, I think. Anyway, she and I met in high school when I did a semester abroad in St. Petersburg.”

“That’s cool,” Steve says. “You met my best friend already – Sharon.”

“Yeah,” Bucky says. “She’s very nice. I should introduce you to Nat when she’s in town the next time. She’s on a world tour right now.”

“I’d like that.” Steve pauses. “Have you… told her about us?”

“Yeah,” Bucky admits. “She’d have killed me if I lied to her about something this big. And as it is, she wasn’t really pleased. She thinks this is a bad idea. You and me, I mean.”

“On paper it kind of _seems_ like a bad idea, though,” Steve points out.

“Yeah, but that’s on paper,” Bucky says. “In real life, I think it’s working out great. I wouldn’t change a thing.”

Steve blinks. Then he nods once to himself. Maybe he won’t say anything, after all.


	12. Chapter 12

A few weeks later, Steve brings the news to Bucky that he has to have another surgery. “The plate has to come out of my right arm,” he says. “It’s not healing right and I have a screw loose.”

Bucky grins broadly. “That’s a joke that is never gonna get old, isn’t it?”

“Yup,” Steve replies, grinning back. “So I need to ask you a favor.”

“Of course,” Bucky replies. “Whatever you need.”

“You should probably hear the request first,” Steve points out. “It’s an outpatient surgery, but somebody has to be there during the whole thing, and also stay with me overnight. Otherwise I have to be admitted.”

“Of course I’ll do it,” Bucky says immediately.

“It’s next Tuesday.”

“Not a problem.”

“I have to be there at six a.m.”

“You should probably sleep over here the night before; that way we don’t have to try to meet up there. It’s at New York-Pres?”

“Yeah,” Steve says. “You seriously don’t mind?”

“Not even a little bit,” Bucky replies. “So stop trying to talk me out of it.”

Steve smiles then. “Just making sure you know what you’re agreeing to before you agree to it.”

“It’s fine,” Bucky says, smiling back. “You’d do the same for me.”

And Steve would, that’s true. Not necessarily for the same reasons, though.

“So what are they gonna do without the plate?” Bucky asks.

“They’re going to do a bone transplant; they’ll put in a piece of cadaver bone and then put a bar in my arm that goes from here to here.” He points to the back of his hand and then the middle of his arm. “It’ll keep me immobilized while they wait to see if the cadaver bone takes. If it doesn’t, then they’ll have to go back in and use my own bone.”

Bucky grimaces. “Cadaver bone, though?”

“Sure,” Steve replies. “It’s just a transplant.”

“Still,” Bucky says.

Steve shrugs. “Anyway, I’ll be back in all the Ace bandages after that. I’m not looking forward to it.”

“I bet not,” Bucky replies. “At least they’ll take the pin out, though, right?”

“Yeah,” Steve says. “So I’ll be glad for that.” The pin is, in fact, the bane of Steve’s existence; as his wrist bones heal, the pin is getting slowly pushed out of his arm, which makes it press against the inside of the cast. That’s painful. So Steve will be extremely glad to have the pin gone, even if he does have to go back into the Ace bandages and the half cast for awhile.

“You should stay here while you’re recovering,” Bucky says suddenly.

Steve blinks. “Come again?”

“You should stay here,” Bucky repeats. “While you’re recovering. You could bring whatever over from your apartment and just stay here. You’ve got clothes and stuff. No sense in tracking back and forth all the time.”

“I mean… I’m only gonna be down a day or so,” Steve points out.

“You’re gonna be back in the bandages with only half a good hand,” Bucky rebuts. “You might as well be here where I can help you with stuff and we can just go out to eat and things.”

Steve is extremely reluctant to go along with this; it’s too much like moving in. But Bucky is dead serious, and he can’t think of a good argument against it. “Okay,” he finally says, a little weakly.

“Good,” Bucky says. “When you go home tonight, pack up your laptop and whatever else you think you’ll need and just bring it all back over tomorrow. I’ll get you a key.”

“Oh, you don’t have to – ” Steve starts, but Bucky has crossed the room and pulled a ring of keys out of the drawer in the table by the door.

“Where’s your keys?” Bucky asks. “I’ll put it on the ring for you. You can’t do it with one hand.”

Steve fishes his keys out of his pocket and offers them to Bucky, who soon realizes that he can’t do it with one hand, either. Steve takes the key and Bucky works his thumbnail into the spiral, and between the two of them they are able to get the key onto the ring. “There,” Bucky says when they’re done and Steve has put the ring back in his pocket. “Teamwork.”

Steve grins. “Yeah.”

They head to the media room then and flop down to watch Netflix; Steve’s never seen _Penny Dreadful_ and Bucky is adamant that he should not go another day without. It’s very late indeed when they call it quits for the night, so Bucky calls a Lyft for Steve to send him home. “I’ll see you tomorrow whenever you get here,” he says, leaning in to drop a quick kiss on Steve’s lips.

Steve nods, smiling, and slides into the car, giving the driver his nearest intersection.

Once he’s alone in his apartment, he flops down onto the couch, pulls out his phone, and calls Sharon. “I don’t know what to do!”

“Of course you don’t, you moron,” Sharon replies, audibly shaking her head. “What happened now?”

“He kissed me.”

“Is that… unusual?”

“Yeah, we don’t…” Steve trails off, then shrugs. “It’s… kissing is intimate, you know? You usually only do that with people you… you really care about.”

“I keep telling you.”

“He _said_ he doesn’t want to _change_ anything!” Steve points out.

“I know what he _said,_ ” Sharon replies. “I’m telling you what he _means._ ”

Steve’s quiet for a long moment before he finally says, “I can’t risk it.”

“Is it because of the money?” Sharon asks bluntly.

“No,” Steve says, quiet but firm. “I just… if I tell him how I feel, and he doesn’t feel the same way, it’ll be over, and I’ll never see him again.”

“Yeah but, Steve,” she says, “if he _does_ feel the same way, imagine how much better things could be.”

Steve closes his eyes and shakes his head. “I can’t,” he whispers. “I _can’t._ I can’t risk it.”

“Even if it means you might not ever be happy with him?”

“I _am_ happy,” Steve replies. “I’m actually really happy.”

“Yeah, but think about how much happier you’d be if you could kiss him all the time,” Sharon says.

Steve remains stubbornly silent at that, and Sharon finally sighs. “Nothing I say is getting through to you, is it?”

“It’s getting through,” Steve assures her. “I just…”

“You don’t know how much you can trust my instincts.”

“You’ve only met him once!”

“That was all it took,” Sharon replies. “I don’t need to meet him a million times to see how he looks at you.”

“Maybe,” Steve says, and then he changes the subject. He doesn’t tell her about the part where he’s basically moving in with Bucky – he already knows what she’ll say.

The next morning, he rolls out of bed and grabs his duffel bag, packing up a few items of clothing that are his favorites as well as all of his underwear and socks. Slinging the bag over his shoulder, he heads out and catches the train into Manhattan.

The doorman looks surprised to see him. “Mr. Barnes isn’t in,” he says. “He left about an hour ago.”

“Oh, that’s okay,” Steve says. “I have a key.”

The doorman blinks. “I… see.” Then he nods. “Have a nice day, then, sir.”

“You, too,” Steve replies, punching the elevator button and stepping on when the doors open. Once in the apartment, Steve makes his way down the hall to the master bedroom. Bucky’s second closet, which was empty, is now partially filled by Steve’s things; he adds the contents of his duffel to what’s already there, then tucks the bag itself away in a drawer. Coming back out, he takes his laptop to the kitchen, sets up on the island, and pulls up _The Sims._ He hasn’t played in ages, so he falls right into it, and doesn’t even look up again until he hears the front door open and Bucky’s voice call out, “Steve?”

“In the kitchen,” Steve replies, pausing and saving his game. He turns and smiles at Bucky when he enters the room. “Hey,” he says. “How was your day?”

“Long,” Bucky complains. “PT and then Phil and then a bunch of other crap. Paps everywhere, seemed like.” He shakes his head, leaning forward to rest his forehead on Steve’s shoulder. “If it wasn’t for the money, I’d quit being famous in a heartbeat.”

“Is the money worth it?” Steve wants to know.

Bucky heaves a sigh, then stands up, grabbing a stool and pulling it out. “Some days,” he admits. “Some days it’s absolutely worth it. I mean…” He waves an expressive hand at their opulent surroundings.

“But other days?” Steve asks, intuiting the answer already.

“Yeah,” Bucky agrees. “Other days, not so much. Today was a not-so-much kind of day.”

“I’m sorry,” Steve says. “Is there anything I can do to make it better?”

Bucky waggles his eyebrows at Steve. “I can think of at least one thing.”

Steve laughs. “In a little bit,” he says. “I don’t want you to fall off this stool.”

“What do you want to have for dinner?” Bucky asks.

“Oh, I don’t know. Anything’s fine with me.”

“What about breakfast? What if we went and had breakfast for dinner?”

“Sure you’re up for going out again?” Steve checks.

Bucky thinks about it, then shrugs. “What the hell, right?”

Steve grins. “Okay. Pancakes it is.”

Living in close quarters with Bucky is its own exquisite kind of hell, Steve soon realizes. He thought he was used to Bucky all disheveled and cute in the mornings; he thought he was used to Bucky cuddling up to him in the middle of the night.

It turns out that he was not, in fact, used to it. It’s so domestic, and so perfect, that Steve’s heart hurts all the time now, and he keeps thinking about Sharon’s words over and over: _I don’t need to meet him a million times to see how he looks at you._ Steve starts to think he can see the looks as well – when Bucky thinks Steve won’t notice, he watches. Occasionally, Steve will glance up, and Bucky will hastily change his expression… but Steve is starting to notice.

He’s pretty sure he can’t keep up the charade of pretending not to care for very much longer. He decides that he’ll tell Bucky how he feels after his surgery. He’s got to get that out of the way, and then he’ll come clean. And if it turns out that Sharon’s wrong, he’ll be able to go home and move on with his life.

Hopefully.

On Tuesday, they get to the hospital a little bit before six o’clock. Steve goes through the check-in process, giving them all the information they need about his emergency contact and who’s with him today and whether or not he has allergies and so on. Then he heads to the waiting room with Bucky, where they sit and chat quietly until Steve’s name is called.

They go back to a prep room where the nurse has Steve change into a gown. She takes his vitals, sticks his left arm with an IV cannula, and makes sure that Bucky is good to stay the entire time and that he will also be with Steve after the surgery. When they assure her that this is Bucky’s entire reason for being there, she’s satisfied, and she leaves them alone. Bucky takes the bag with Steve’s clothes in it, and they chat some more until an orderly comes to get Steve and take him to the operating room.

Bucky leans in and kisses Steve’s cheek before he goes. “I’ll be here when you come out,” he says.

Steve’s still thinking about that kiss when they put him under.

When he wakes up, Bucky’s there, and Steve says, “Heya Buck.” Then he reaches up with his left hand to touch Bucky’s face. “Gosh, you’re pretty.”

Bucky grins, and Steve grins back. “Yep,” Steve says. “Pretty.”

“Thanks,” Bucky says, taking Steve’s hand. “I’m glad you think so.”

“Always think so,” Steve drawls. “So pretty. An’ sweet.”

“Aww, stop, you’re gonna make me blush.”

Steve tugs on Bucky’s hand. “Hey, hey, hey Buck,” he says.

“Yeah, what is it?”

“I’m gonna fall asleep again.”

“You should try to stay awake,” Bucky says.

“Nah. Wanna sleep. Dream ‘bout you.”

“About me?” Bucky says, and there’s a look of genuine surprise on his face.

“Yeah,” Steve says. “Tell you I like you. Lots. Wanna be your boyfriend for real, like.”

Bucky quickly covers Steve’s mouth with their joined hands. “Shh,” he says softly, glancing around. “Not so loud.”

“Oh, ‘s it… ‘s it a ward?” Steve asks, raising his head to look around.

“Yeah, Steve,” Bucky says. “There’s other people here. We don’t wanna bother ‘em.”

“Kay,” Steve says, settling back. “Gonna sleep just a minute,” he says. Then he looks up and stares at Bucky. “Hey,” he says in a whisper. “‘S… ‘S important.”

“What’s that?” Bucky asks.

“Love you. Be my boyfriend.”

Bucky laughs softly. “Okay, Steve,” he says, squeezing Steve’s hand.

Steve wakes again when the nurse comes and makes him sit up; Bucky helps him get dressed and when he can walk without falling, they get a Lyft back to Bucky’s place. Steve’s arm is back in the bandages and half-cast, and he whines a little bit about it, but mostly he’s still out of it. Bucky guides him into the building, up to the apartment and then back to the bedroom, where he helps him get undressed and puts him to bed.

Several hours later, Steve wakes up for real. He sits up with a gasp.

Bucky, who’s sitting on the bed beside him and reading a book, looks over at him. “Oh, is Sleeping Beauty finally awake?”

“I’m awake,” Steve says. “I really need to piss.” But he’s able to get himself up out of the bed and goes to the bathroom on his own. While he’s standing there, though, he suddenly gets a flash, and he remembers just what he said in the recovery room.

“Oh, no,” he breathes.

When he’s done, he gets one of the antiseptic wipes out of the package on the counter and wipes down his hands as best he can, and then he marches back out into the bedroom to face the music.

“So, uh,” he says intelligently.

Bucky looks up at him, face inscrutable, and sets aside the book he’s been reading. “Yeah,” he says simply. “I guess it’s time for us to have a talk.”


	13. Chapter 13

“I’ve been sitting here for the last few hours trying to figure out what to say,” Bucky says. “So I guess… I just want to know… did you mean it?”

Steve swallows hard. _Nut up, Rogers,_ he says to himself, and then he nods slowly. “I didn’t mean to _say_ it,” he admits. “But I meant it. I… I like you, Bucky. A lot. As… as more than friends, or clients, or whatever. I…” He trails off and shrugs. “I just do, I guess.”

Bucky’s eyes narrow at him. “Is this about the money? Because – ”

“ _No,_ ” Steve says, riding over the top of whatever Bucky was going to say. “Absolutely not. I don’t take money from people I’m dating. If I was going to date you, I wouldn’t take your money. Not a penny.”

“You will at least until you can start painting again,” Bucky snaps back. “It’s kind of my fault you were in that accident anyway.”

“Bullshit,” Steve replies.

“You wouldn’t even have been in L.A. if it wasn’t for me,” Bucky points out. “I’m allowed to feel guilty if I want to, and I’m allowed to take care of my boyfriend when he needs it.”

“I’m not your boyfriend,” Steve challenges.

“Yet,” Bucky volleys back. “And even if you’re not, we still have an arrangement whereby I take care of you in return for, you know, whatever.”

“Whatever,” Steve echoes. “Bucky, you don’t… I don’t want you to feel like you have to pretend or something to reciprocate. I won’t… I won’t make demands on you, or – ”

“What if I want you to?” Bucky asks, getting up and stalking around the bed toward Steve. “What if I want you to make demands? What if I want you to admit that you want me? If I want you to admit that it’d hurt you if I got a girlfriend, or a boyfriend for that matter?”

“What if it would?” Steve shoots back. “Would it matter?”

“It would matter,” Bucky growls. Then he takes Steve gently by the bicep and leans in. “Stop me if you don’t want this.”

“I’m not going to stop you,” Steve replies, shivering at the feel of Bucky’s breath so close to his skin.

And then Bucky presses in, kissing Steve. It’s soft at first, but it turns hot and hard quickly, and Steve whimpers, leaning into it. He raises his left arm, wrapping it around Bucky’s neck, and pulls him closer, giving as good as he gets.

And then Bucky jerks back, hissing. “Ow, ow, ow, fuck.”

Steve’s eyes go wide. “What happened? What did I do?”

“Nothing, nothing, you didn’t do anything,” Bucky says, dropping down onto the side of the bed and hunching forward a little bit. “I forgot and tried to use my left arm.”

“Oh, no,” Steve says. “Do you need a pill? Some Tylenol? Something?”

“Just… just need to sit for a second. It’ll pass.”

Steve moves to sit beside Bucky on his right, leaning in and resting his temple against Bucky’s shoulder. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I wish I could fix it for you.”

“Me, too,” Bucky agrees, then laughs softly. “Too bad I’m not really Cap, with the magical healing serum.”

“Oh, jeez, wouldn’t that be nice,” Steve replies, laughing as well. “Hey, I have an idea. Want something to distract you? I can show you some of my _Captain America_ fanart.”

“You’ve done Cap fanart?”

“I’ve done _so much_ Cap fanart,” Steve replies.

“What’s the popular pairing?”

“Aside from Cap and Peggy, it’s Cap and Gabe Jones,” Steve replies. He looks around, finds his phone on the bedside table, and pulls up his Tumblr. “Look, here’s one.”

Bucky blinks at it. “Jesus,” he says after a moment, tilting his head and examining the goods. “That’s pretty generous, don’t you think?”

“I draws ‘em like I sees ‘em,” Steve replies, laughing. “Nobody ever asked you to sign one of those, I guess.”

“No, and if they had, Phil would never have let me,” Bucky says. “Sign a nudie pinup of Cap?”

“Hey, this is more than a nudie pinup,” Steve says, all mock affront. “This is _erotic art._ ”

“Right, right,” Bucky agrees “Erotic art. Sure. I’m Rose from _Titanic_ and you’re drawing me like – ”

“Don’t say it,” Steve interrupts. “Please don’t say it. I hear that joke _so much._ ”

Laughing, Bucky mimes zipping his lips. Then he takes the phone away from Steve and starts scrolling down Steve’s dash. “Okay, who’s this?”

Steve explains each picture that Bucky doesn’t recognize, naming each actor as Bucky scrolls past.

“These are really good,” Bucky says. “But I know you haven’t seen Henry Cavill naked, so how do you know what to draw for his…” He gestures to his crotch.

“Okay, well, first of all, I _could_ have seen Henry Cavill naked; you don’t know,” Steve teases. Then he shakes his head. “I actually use porn a lot. And of course, I mean, it’s not like I don’t know what one looks like. From experience, even.”

“Have you drawn others of your… clients… like this?”

“No,” Steve replies. “And I only drew you because it was paid-for fanart.” He pauses, tilting his head a little. “Does it make you uncomfortable? I can stop.”

“No, it’s fine,” Bucky assures him. “I just wondered if…” He shrugs.

Steve smiles slightly, a little wry. “If I’d fallen for any of my clients before?”

Bucky shrugs diffidently. “It’s a fair question.”

“It is,” Steve agrees. “And the answer is no, I never have.” He pauses, then says, “If it helps at all, I can tell you about some of them.”

“I don’t really want to know who…”

“I didn’t say who, I said _about,_ ” Steve corrects him. “Like for example I can tell you that my last client, who was a fairly well known politician, was heavy into pushing the boundaries of consent.”

“Pushing the… you mean he… did things you didn’t agree to ahead of time.”

Steve nods. “It never went into outright rape, but after the third time I told him that something was a hard _no_ and he did it anyway, I ended the agreement and told him to lose my number.”

Bucky bites his lip. “Do you think any of your previous clients know about us? That we… about our arrangement, I mean?”

“They probably suspect,” Steve replies. “But they won’t know for sure. And you don’t have to worry about anything; even if any of them _was_ willing to out themselves in order to out us, which I doubt, all we have to do is say it isn’t true.”

Bucky looks over at him. “ _Is_ it true?”

Steve bites his lip. “Not… not any more?”

Bucky smiles then, slow and sure. “Are you asking me or telling me?”

“You’re a jerk.”

“You’re a punk,” Bucky replies. “As far as I’m concerned, our business arrangement is no longer in force. All I have now is a boyfriend who I kinda like really a lot.”

Steve leans in to kiss him again. “Same,” he agrees. Then he rests his head on Bucky’s shoulder.

“How long have you felt like this?” Bucky asks.

Steve thinks about it. “I don’t know,” he admits. “I can’t pinpoint a day. I just sort of slowly realized that – oops – I’d fallen for you, and – oops – what do I do now?”

Bucky laughs. “And how long have you been oopsing?”

Steve considers this. “Since before the accident,” he admits. “Not as long as I could have been if I was maybe a little more self-aware.”

“I didn’t realize,” Bucky says.

“I didn’t want you to,” Steve replies.

Bucky nods. “That makes sense.” Then he asks, “Were you ever going to tell me?”

“I was going to wait until we were both a little bit better,” Steve says. “It would look weird for us to break up so soon after the accident.”

“Break up?” Bucky asks.

“If you didn’t feel the same,” Steve explains. “We’d be over, me and you.”

“You’d leave?”

“I’d have to,” Steve says softly. “Even if you were willing to continue… it would just be a charade at that point, and I couldn’t do that to myself.”

Bucky wraps his arm around Steve and squeezes him tight. “I’m glad I had the sense to realize I’d fallen for you, too,” he says softly.

“When did _you_ realize?” Steve asks.

“When I kissed you,” Bucky admits. “That night that we watched _Penny Dreadful._ ”

Steve smiles. “I called Sharon about that,” he says. “Because it was such a… well. We’d never done that before.”

“All the things we _have_ done and it’s a kiss that gets you twitterpated.”

“You’re one to talk.”

There’s a brief, careful scuffle that ends when Steve pretends to thunk Bucky on the head with his half-cast. “Not to change the subject, but are you hungry?” he asks. “Because I’m starving.”

“Yeah, I could definitely eat,” Bucky nods, letting the heaviness of the conversation settle for a bit. “Let’s go to the diner. I want a big greasy cheeseburger.”

“Can you even eat a big greasy cheeseburger with just one hand?” Steve challenges.

“I can give it my best shot,” Bucky replies. “Guess we’ll see.”

Together they manage to get properly dressed, helping each other with buttons and shoelaces, and Bucky once again crows about teamwork. “I’d never have gotten into these button-flys without your help,” he says.

“Couldn’t have tied my shoes without you,” Steve agrees. “C’mon, let’s go eat.”

Steve gets breakfast for dinner: a hand-high stack of pancakes and an order of scrambled eggs with bacon. Bucky gets his greasy cheeseburger and asks the waitress to have it cut in half for him. She obliges, and he’s able to pick up one half in his good hand, giving Steve a smug look as he bites into it.

“Yeah, yeah, rub it in,” Steve replies, shoveling eggs into his mouth awkwardly with his left hand.

They’re mostly quiet while they eat, but about halfway through the meal, Steve feels something bump against his foot. He glances up at Bucky, who’s grinning, and bumps back, grinning as well. “Nerd,” he says softly.

“You love it,” Bucky replies, grin turning into a smirk.

And Steve can’t deny that, so he doesn’t even try. Instead, he hooks his foot around Bucky’s ankle and digs into his pancakes.

“Wanna walk?” Bucky asks as they leave the diner.

“Sure,” Steve says. “Hey, we should see if we can find some Geocaches.”

Bucky laughs. “You don’t have to pretend to like it any more.”

“I’m not pretending,” Steve says. “I really think it’s fun.”

“Oh, good,” Bucky says, relieved. “I was worried you were only pretending to enjoy it for the sake of…”

“Yeah, no,” Steve denies. “I actually enjoy it. The one we did in Central Park with all the bridges was amazing; I loved it.”

“Well, all right then,” Bucky says, pulling his phone out and opening up the Geocaching app. “Let’s see what we can find.”

They hunt caches until their feet hurt, laughing and teasing each other as they go, and then they finally fetch up on Bucky’s front door, exhausted. The doorman lets them in and they thank him, heading upstairs.

“Want to watch some more _Penny Dreadful_ before bed?” Bucky asks.

“Sure,” Steve replies. “Give me more spiders right before sleep; I love spiders.”

“Oh, good point,” Bucky agrees, grimacing. “How about _Queer Eye_ instead?”

“That’s more like it,” Steve says, laughing. “Popcorn?”

“Sure, why not?”

They make popcorn and head into the media room, where they put on _Queer Eye_ and settle in to watch.

In the morning, Steve wakes with a crick in his neck and numb feet where he’d tucked them under Bucky’s thigh. He groans. “Buck. Wake up.”

“Mmm?” Bucky responds, rolling his head in Steve’s direction.

“Buck. We fell ‘sleep on the couch.”

Bucky blinks his eyes open slowly, then looks around. “Oops,” he says. “We sure did.”

“Up and at ‘em,” Steve says, pulling his feet back. “Don’t you have PT this morning?”

Bucky sits bolt upright. “Shit, what time is it?”

Steve leans over to tap the screen of his phone, which is laying on the coffee table. “Just after eight-thirty.”

“Plenty of time, then,” Bucky says, flopping backward with a sigh of relief. “I don’t have to be there ‘til ten.”

“Oh, good,” Steve says. “Plenty of time for a shower and some breakfast.”

“I don’t think I’m hungry,” Bucky says. “Lunch after?”

“Yeah, okay,” Steve agrees. “You pick it.”

“Justin’s,” Bucky says immediately.

Steve nods. “See you there at eleven-thirty.”

They go through their morning routine and Bucky heads out for PT; as soon as he’s gone, Steve picks up the phone and calls Sharon.

“I’m at work,” she says when she answers. “Make it quick.”

“I told him,” Steve blurts. He flops onto the couch and stares at the ceiling.

“You did?” Sharon squeaks. Steve hears rustling and then a thump; she’s gotten up and closed her office door. “What happened?”

“Anesthesia happened,” Steve explains. “I was high as a fucking kite and I told him I loved him and wanted him to be my boyfriend for real.”

“Oh my god,” Sharon groans. “You didn’t.”

“I did,” Steve confirms. “It was terrible.”

There’s a long silence before Sharon says, cautiously, “What do you mean, it was terrible?”

“I mean _terrible,_ ” Steve says, enjoying playing with Sharon for a long moment before saying, “I could not possibly have invented a more cringeworthy method of moving our relationship to the next level if I’d _tried._ ”

“Next lev – oh!” Sharon squeaks again. “Oh, I was right, wasn’t I?”

“You were right,” Steve confirms. “He’s totally into me.”

“Oh, Steve, I’m so glad,” Sharon says. “So you’re together now? For real?”

“For real,” Steve says. “Now it’s not even a bad thing that I’m basically living at his house.”

“You’re _what_?!”

Steve spends the next several minutes explaining the current living situation to Sharon, who just sighs when he’s done. “Only you, Steve. Only you.”

Steve laughs. “What can I say?”

“Nothing. There’s nothing you can say. But I can. I can say _I told you so._ And I’m going to say it _so many times._ You don’t even know how many times I’m going to say it.”

“And you have earned the right,” Steve agrees, grinning.

Steve hears a muffled knock through the phone line. Sharon says, “Got to go,” and hangs up. Steve grins at the ceiling like an idiot. Yeah, today’s a good day. Even if Sharon _is_ going to hold it over his head for the rest of time.

~*~

**One Year Later**

~*~

“I am never leaving Brooklyn again,” Bucky says, flopping down on the couch. “In fact, I may never leave this couch again.”

“I understand that feeling all too well,” Steve agrees, flopping down next to him. He tilts his head back and stares up at the ceiling. “And just think: tomorrow we get to start unpacking all these boxes.”

Bucky groans. “Don’t remind me.” He slowly slumps to the side, resting on his right arm and dropping his head into Steve’s lap.

Laughing, Steve strokes Bucky’s hair. “Aw, it’s not that bad. Honestly, the movers did most of the work.”

“This is true,” Bucky agrees. “So why do I still feel like I’ve been curb-stomped?”

“Because we did so much running back and forth and we did actually carry our own share of boxes.”

“That would explain it.” Bucky heaves a gusty sigh. “When do the renters move into your place?”

“Next week,” Steve says. He grimaces. “I feel weird having other people live there. I was born in that apartment.”

“Like, literally?”

“No, no, just… you know. I’ve lived in it my whole life.” Steve shrugs, still stroking Bucky’s hair. “I don’t know how to feel about living someplace else.”

“Hopefully you’ll like it,” Bucky says. “After all, this place is a hundred percent ours.”

Steve smiles. “Yeah, it is. And I love it. I can’t wait to start painting in that art room.”

“The sun in there is going to be fantastic,” Bucky agrees. “And I know how much you’ve missed painting.”

Steve holds his right hand up and waggles his wrist. “I can’t believe I’m finally out of the brace and everything. It’s been a _year._ ”

“It has, hasn’t it?” Bucky says, blinking. “Unbelievable.”

Steve lets out a long, slow breath. “What a year it’s been,” he says softly.

“Yeah,” Bucky says. He reaches up with his left hand and catches Steve’s hand in his. “I wouldn’t necessarily want to relive it – I’m so glad to be done with PT I could cry – but we had some good things happen.”

“We had a lot of good things happen,” Steve corrects, smiling. He squeezes Bucky’s hand.

And it’s true: there have been many good things that have happened over the past year, for both of them. But the best thing is this: they are here, together, in a place that’s their own. Bucky finally sold his place in Manhattan and they bought a brownstone in Brooklyn together; Steve ceremoniously deleted his profile from the sugar baby website; Bucky proposed; Steve said yes.

Now they’re moving into the new phase of their lives together, and Steve couldn’t be happier. He looks down at Bucky, who’s dozing on his lap. “I love you,” he says softly. “And I’m so glad you emailed me that day.”

Bucky smiles sleepily. “Me, too,” he murmurs. “Love you.”


End file.
